Leslie Jo Chase, Author at Leslie Jo Chase

November 2, 2014

INDIANA ROAD TRIP, Part I

Cue the harp music as we go back in time to October 19th, 2014….

Sunday:

Lucas and I drove to Nashville, Indiana, to stay with my brother-from-another-mother, Terry, at the home he shared with my brother-from-the-same-mother, Paul.

Their house is in the middle of a 100 acre wood. Well, it’s 15 acres, but after three or four, who’s counting? Terry lives with Rudy, the cat, and Sky, the dog, and was dog-sitting his friends’ Corey and Brandi’s Cocker Spaniel, Lucy, for a few days while we were there.

Rudy, who is one of those rare, really sweet cats.

Lucy was happy, sweet, and allergic to everything. The poor dog scratched herself silly, releasing a rather pungent, odiferous scent. When I took her for walks, I tried to stay upwind. Ashamed of my inability to tolerate Lucy, I walked with my tail between my legs.

For supper (I love that word; it’s so ignored up north,) we made a small dent in the cooler full of food Grandma had sent with us.

Monday:

Terry went to work, Lucas caught up on his sleep, and I hiked around the property with Sky and Lucy. Since we were in Brown County, Indiana, the colors of the leaves were every shade of magnificent. You couldn’t turn around without bumping into a tree. (Well, that can happen to me anywhere.)

For supper we made a small dent in the cooler full of food Grandma had sent with us.

Tuesday:

Before we left town, I had made tentative plans to visit Iris Rosa, my favorite professor from I.U. that day, and watch the 2014-2015 African American Dance Company (AADC) rehearse. Because Terry came home from work early and Lucas was awake at 3:00 PM, they dropped me off on campus, and walked around town together.

When I was a member of the (AADC) in 1981-82, as Paul had been years before, we rehearsed in a small, old basement.

The AADC has a new home: the Marcellus Neal and Frances Marshall Black Culture Center, named for the first African-American graduates of I.U. The studio is huge, with tons of mirrors and windows, and a vaulted ceiling with a skylight.

Watching the AADC rehearse brought back the best memories I have of being a student at I.U. “ProRo” and the dancers welcomed me like family.

I need to work on a more natural-looking smile.

It was an honor to watch these beautiful, amazing dancers prepare for an upcoming concert. Their energy was palpable. I was itching to get up and dance with them, but didn’t want to risk ruining the rest of our road trip with an upper or lower body injury.

Wednesday:

See Monday, except, Terry brought Lucy back to Corey and Brandi’s house because they were home from their vacation (I was still upset with myself for being Miss Judgy-pants.)

Thursday:

Thursday would have been Paul’s 59th birthday. The night before, Terry told Lucas and me that he had taken the day off from work and had a surprise for us.

A surprise for us? I imagined this day would be so hard for him, but he turned it into a really fun day that I’ll remember every October 23rd.

Terry’s last name is Briner, which will prove to be very important in this story. He has often told me about where he had grown up and how his family had settled in the area of Paoli, Indiana. I did some research one night at Mom’s house when Paul and Terry were visiting, and found tons of information about his ancestry, at which time I began to refer to his hometown as “Briner-ville.” I wasn’t too far off the mark.

Terry had the entire day planned out, including an itinerary of where we would go, and how much time we would spend at each place. We had been invited to Corey and Brandi’s house for supper at 6:00, and would need about an hour to get there.

Terry’s hometown was about an hour away from Brown County, so we tried to leave the house as early as possible. I am perpetually late, even when trying to be early, but managed to get up, dressed, and ready for our adventure.

Terry’s family settled in Orange County, Indiana in the late 1700’s. 1700’s! We visited Briner Springs, and the Briner family cemetery, high up on a hill, just as his great-great grandfather, George Briner, had wanted.

Terry came prepared with documents that led us to barely legible, weather-worn tombstones. Then he read to us the beautiful love-letter his great-grandfather, John, who was fighting in the Civil War, sent to his fiancee, Eleanor.

The tour continued to the Baden Springs Hotel with an atrium that looks as if it defies all laws of physics. We had lunch there, and, yes, I did lie on the floor in the middle of that great room to get this shot.

From there we drove a few miles to see Brenda and Jim, Terry’s sister, and brother-in-law. We were also introduced to Brenda’s pet catfish. Yes, pet catfish (who live in her pond.)

These were no ordinary catfish; they were so immense, they were like catfish on steroids.

Before we left, Brenda gave me a set of hand-knit oven towels for my sister, Beth, and one for me. She also sent me home with this very cool puzzle.

Supper at Corey and Brandi’s was delicious, and their kids were adorable. Lucy smelled like a new woman. I felt like I had gained more family that day, not to mention all of Paul and Terry’s friends I’ve known and kept in touch with for years. I felt more whole than I had in the few months since the Recent Unpleasantries.

That night, I accidentally knocked my little makeup mirror to the floor, shattering it completely. Seven years of bad luck?

I don’t think so.

I just laughed. What could possibly be worse than this past summer? Nothing.

INDIANA ROAD TRIP PART II coming soon to a computer screen near you!

October 28, 2014October 28, 2014

Be careful what you witch for

When I was a junior at I.U., several decades ago, I dated a guy we’ll call Asshole’. Asshole’ was an amazing artist, which attracted me to him more than he did. The fact that he threw up on our first date should have been an indication of how vile this relationship would be.

Luckily, his bad temper, moodiness, and endless lies didn’t scar me emotionally for life. (Note to self: make appointment with my therapist for two sessions next week.) The persistent eye twitch and facial tics I still have will eventually dwindle, I’ve been told.

Asshole’ didn’t go out with several other girls behind my back while we were dating for three years, did he? Wait. One of my other personalities is telling me that he did. Another one is laughing.

Asshole’ and I had been invited to a Halloween party in Bloomington where some of his buddies lived in a house together. I don’t remember what Asshole’ wore for a costume, but I’ll never forget mine.

Because he was such a gifted artist, we both thought it would be a hoot if he used my face as a canvas and turned me into Albert Einstein.

When Asshole’ had finished applying makeup to my face, frizzing and powdering my hair, and applying a powdered mustache, I looked just like the man who defined the Theory of Relativity, relatively speaking.

But, looks were the only thing Professor Einstein and I had in common at that time. A genius I was not; especially about choosing boyfriends.

Being the good girlfriend that I was, I was proud to show off my boyfriend’s handiwork. I was a walking art exhibit; a performance artist, if you will; and a complete idiot.

As soon as we walked into the house I knew I had made a mistake of enormous proportions. My uncanny resemblance to Albert was a stroke of genius in the privacy of my dorm room. Not so much in public.

I didn’t know another person at the party. Some wore costumes and some didn’t, but no one looked as hideous as I.

And, no one had on a cuter, more adorable costume than Jessica, my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend with whom he was still in love.

I had never heard of Jessica during my three year romance with Asshole’, but found out later that she had chosen his best friend, Dan, over him (very George Harrison/Eric Clapton/Pattie Boyd-ish.)

But, Asshole’ and Dan decided to bury the hatchet just before Halloween that year. Hmmmmmm. Curious. Had Asshole’ made up with Dan just to get an invitation to his party knowing Jessica would be there? And, had he turned me into Einstein to make me pale in comparison to his ex?

Perhaps I was not as stupid as I looked, especially that night.

Jessica had long, blonde pigtails, rosy cheeks, an oversized lollipop, and wore a very short dress, white tights, and the shoes of a common streetwalker.

I wore baggy, black men’s dress pants, an oversized white button-down shirt, black men’s shoes, and a belt I had found at a thrift shop.

She looked like an adorable life-sized doll.

I looked like a young Phil Spector.

She stood 6’4”, with heels.

I stood as tall as the pretty pink sash at the waist of her dress.

The only thing I felt good about that night was that my shoes matched my belt.

I spent the rest of the evening sitting on my “Annus Mirabilis.”

As the real Einstein has been quoted, “All of science is nothing more than refinement of everyday thinking.”

I refined my thinking, all right. After he returned me to my dorm room that night, I dumped Asshole’.

Note: I swear, I make it a point not to use foul language when I write. Apparently the ‘ after my ex-boyfriend’s name went unnoticed. It’s supposed to be pronounced assholyay.

October 13, 2014

The Skirt

As I’ve complained before, I loathe shopping. I somehow got tricked into entering a department store by my family because someone needed something and we were having a “family day,” and it obviously wasn’t my turn to choose the day’s activities. Ugh.

We entered the store through the women’s clothing section and I seriously felt like a four-year-old being dragged through a “grown-up” store. All I really wanted was to take a nap.

I was just about to crumple to the floor and throw a proper tantrum when I spotted The Skirt. I metamorphosized from a bratty four-year-old to an Academy Award winning Actress (Actor? Whatever.) in an L.A. minute. I could almost hear people shouting, “Who are you wearing?”

I told my family to run along to get whatever whomever needed what, and my people would call their people when I was ready to exit, stage right.

I took the skirt off the rack and put it back at least five times. It was unnecessary. It was on sale! I’d never have an occasion to wear a skirt like that. But I could make one up! Why bother trying it on? It fit perfectly and made me look, dare I say, svelte? Need I say more? I don’t think so.

The saleswoman talked me into buying a rather matronly top to wear with it. It was on sale. It was okay. It worked. But the first time I wore it I was shedding sequins faster than a drag queen running the 50-yard dash.

I was excited when we received two wedding invitations because I’d get to wear the skirt to both since no one from the first wedding would be at the second one, and, of course, I was happy for the brides and grooms blah, blah, blah.

The first wedding took place at the Blackstone Hotel in Chicago, where Richard’s and my parents were married. My brother Paul’s Bar Mitzvah party had been there, as well.

As the photographer placed our family into the most unnatural poses in the history of all of photography, my parents began to wonder where the busload of kids was that should have already arrived.

Once my mother was informed that the bus driver, who was responsible for safely delivering a bushelful of 7th graders from the synagogue, thought he was supposed to take them to Blackstone Avenue, she began to fear for the safety of the children, as well as the rapid rate at which the ice sculpture was melting.

Thankfully, the shrimp on the buffet was still cold when the children disembarked, not even aware they’d been on a site-seeing tour of the south side of Chicago.

When Richard and I arrived at The Blackstone Hotel for the first wedding, four women who had just left the hotel looked at me and gasped. “Oh, my God! You look fabulous! That skirt is amazing! You look beautiful!”

I said, “Okay. Who is paying you to say this? Where’s John Quinones? Seriously, what is going on?”

Can you believe in this day and age people still act like that in public? They were just being nice and really liked my ensem. I ate it up and swallowed every last bit of it. I became The Skirt, or The Skirt became me, or something like that.

As you’ll see the in the first set of photos, you can dress me up, but you can’t take me anywhere. But, you have to admit, I am pretty talented.

The next wedding we attended had The Best invitation and response card, if you like a side of humor with your salmon. It took place at The Hard Rock Hotel in Chicago.

My skirt and I gracefully swept through the hotel to snap photos of the authentic displays of fabulosity on the walls, before Richard gently reminded me we were there for a wedding, not to stare with wonderment at Steven Tyler’s tiny pants. (Don’t get all judgy on me. I can’t help that I find him attractive.)

I’m excited for The Skirt to return from the dry cleaner so we can make our next appearance. Since we have no invitations at the moment, I’ll lounge around in it while watching the next Bears or Hawks game, and the best part about that is I’ll be wearing comfy, fluffy slippers; not heels.

Wasn’t sure which camera to look at in this one

October 3, 2014

Dear Dad,

I can’t help but think of you as I make matzo ball soup for the holiday. I want to believe you and Paul are ringing in the Jewish new year together, having a grand old time. Life is hard without both of you in it. Holidays are hard, especially as we face each one for the first time without you and Paul.

But, I’m happy and laughing right now because I’m thinking of one of your favorite jokes, and the way you’d laugh every single time you told it, barely able to contain yourself enough to say:

“You know, the matzo balls are the only edible part of the matzo.”