. I am a singer, songwriter, improvisationolist, funny ,daughter, sister, mother,grandma, one time/all the time Lover girl, who still (at this age?) thinks/ hopes and dreams of stardom...Wishfull thinking my mother calls it.... because 'do you know how many people want to make it?" who do you think you are?

I thought I was a rising Star.!

said  out-loud with apprehension.  insecurity my middle name.

 Thank God I was Born with  a  good looking, strong gene pool.

My people are Slavic ,and stay young looking, and flexible for a long time...

We were Built for Oppression.

From the minute i could understand, and distinguish sound, i understood, the sound of arguing and not getting along.

My mother and Father would hold me hostage, playing ,one against the other, and both using me as a shield and as an I told you so, to their happily never after pain of their really wrong for each other marriage. While badgering me for being too soft, too sweet and too good.  and too nice.

As though everyone in the world were gonna  get me... .

 deep down ... I  felt strong. 

Certain, I could go anywhere and handle any situation, in touch with  soul  floating and hovering around me

. I knew there was a God, psychically I could feel every person,I have ever met.

Their pain,their truth, their vulnerability, and who people really are. I feel them . hear what they are saying inside their brain's, without them saying one word....whether we know it or not we can all hear what others are thinking.

 i was born  naturally loving,   sensitive, musically gifted,and  happy to be Alive,

like a child; completely full of wonder, always happy for everyone. No envy, I lived  for the sun-shiny world that has so much to discover, and to be shared...

born in the era, of the flower child, with the  naive notion that what comes around, goes around...karma

Funny, to me now, though, how so many people, I have come to find out really Hate 'Happy Poeple"

It bugs the crap out of them....I try to steer clear of those haters...but ya know...in this world, right now, it's a dilemma.

 'the 'arguing about nothing'  is something i have found, people just love to do...

 I am the oldest child of two, my parents and brother; are so alike, and so unlike me..

.I am a poet, an artist, a singer. I can imitate any accent, walk or vibe.

from the age of 4 years old, i knew every word to every song on the radio, 

 I would spend hours  a day pretending to be a teen sensation  like  Connie Francis, or Sandra Dee.

The Folks counted every penny, I didn't need pennies, i needed Love, and the quiet space to think and do...

But I was girl interrupted, they imposed ADD on me....  reading a book alone, singing, or daydreaming was impossible!

momma needed me as a sheild, my brother a punching bag, my poppa a meddler...

vat are you doink in deh? open de dooeh!, plain and simple:  we all never got along.

In poppa's mind, I was the Santa Claus for all my firends. Giving  away my money, and of myself when i didn't have anything ...

I think he was right.

I know my Poppa Loved me and  was well intentioned,  but he was  that ' Hard Luck Guy" who always finds fault  in everything,

Yet to this day,  I Love him very much. His humor, and ability to make people like him is uncanny.

 Poppa's whole purpose, in  life, was   obsession with the truth,( he called everyone a Liar). (he was the Liar)

He never found anything to be happy about., his life was a dreery drag in stinky clothes.

All he  talked about was  work life,and Money. 

He found no joy in me, he only saw me as a problem....and the problem was fixed by throwing money at it,

Even, today at 89,  he will tell me about meaningless things I  suposedly did to him when i was a child.

As he sits in the  comfy club chair in his bedroom, of his lush Condo,  forever  yelling orders and complaints to his second wife.Rose, who is so worn out  at 85, as she waits on him hand and foot. 

Though, they are apperantly separated. having split their resources a few years ago, yet sharing the same condo,

She in her room TV Blasting watching DR. Phil...He in his room. TV Blasting watching Fox news...only coming out  to the Living (if that's what you call it) room ,when company comes...

each one waiting day by day,   for the next  Doctor appointment :weeks away.

at crappy HMO Hospitals, where (his doctors love him, and keep his flesh alive with gadgets sewn into his chest to keep his heart beating  ) 

Both  sitting a mere 3 feet from  an enourmas 52 inch, vacuous television screen, Not  knowing what   they are watching, or

why,..The only thing on Poppas mind,( And it's still a pretty good one), " if he hadn't worked in the past... where would he be today.!!!") he will ask that

question to anyone within earshot...as if it is the first time he has ever asked it...

How much a person, any person, had, made, and hid.

that was my fathers business. You could be a killer, it didn't matter, if you had money, and you saved it... you were allright with him.

He didn't care who you were,  he had no bounderies when it came to money,  he would walk up to the "HOST" at any party and ask how much something cost and then his eyes rolled back in his head poppa began adding and subtracting,mysterious numbers, that swirled in his head, and mouthing silently,  he would tell that person how much the affair cost,  or the person was earning.

 Poppa " the naysayer", no matter what it was: if black was black ,and red was red, my father would scream that red was black..  if you saw him in the background He looked like the most amazingly generous man, ready to take out his wallet and pay the tab, but at home, he was the doubter of all,reminding you constantly how much such and such cost. He was  the one who calls Foul, but doesn't know why he is doing it, he just want's attention.

 Oh, He had his Upside too.... if you got him in the right mood, he loved to dance, and "Shpiel" around, and  he and my mom,  would dress to the nines and  would kick up a storm and then poppa would dance with me too, 

SHOWING ME OFF,  showing all the other fathers that he had spent a pretty penny on his daughter so she would  be the prettiest one there.

He was  also showing himself off too., as if to say to outsiders...you see, I can dance with the young girls.

If we were at a Bar Mitzvah, or Wedding , he would put his arm out as if we were at a cotillion and then dancing me around the room as though he were the luckiest father in the room.

I always lived for those  moments,of dancing and laughter, even though they were few and far between.,...

The minute we got into the car though, his mask came off, and he would accuse me of always going in the wrong direction,that I somehow was bad.

If I asked what direction he wanted me to go in...he didn't know...

 I really Love him

I   felt sorry for him,

But when I would say it, Poppa I know you worked hard, i felt i  always appologizing for being alive  ,

He would begin the same old long lecture of how i was too nice and too good and  "you not sorry !,

But poppa I feel sorry for you !

You don't feel sorry, because, you ,don't know, you, you would give away your last dime.!

how could i know?..

i would never know the pain he was in.

 i would try  to convince him a thousand times.

But his retort in that bellowing sound and accent. " no you don't know",!!!!

i would say" yes i do know!", you don't!, yes i do!!!!!,and then,

I would give in and say " okay no i don't," then he would bellow...

"you see how much trouble you are giving me?  you don't know!"

"But vun day you gonna find out...beleeeeeeve me!"

Trust me, I got my first comedy chops from that man. always imitating him, and his accent, to the delite of my friends, who poppa always told me didn't really like me...only he liked me...my friends...they were using me...because...I was too good.

i never wanted to be him ,or like him; in anyway, as a child, I couldn't stand  to be around him, Why would anyone? 

I have always felt, and heard the painful whisper of both my parents suffering and  they bled their  doubt into me, as though i had no reason to ever have my dreams come true,

because dreams don't come true. that is the sum of what my Poppa taught me, that life was, bitter, hard and cruel, and  "something  is always wrong with something".

..Poppa would  always say to me " maybe one day... if You act nice( I thought I was too nice?) you vill  be lucky enough and some dumb, poor RICH shnook will come along to take the burden of you, off of me.... and you would be supported. And they  (my parents) could live in Peace.

"Life is hard." He would say again and again. Life is Lousy.

Remember ? do you rememba? ven i vas doing;  going. 5 o'clock in d' morning, breaking sheetink mit de hot tar roofs, early in d' mornink,?   den I vood go to anodeh job,and running to Ma-Gordens?"

'Yes poppa ,i remember. Ma Gordens, of course I do...it  was a delicatessen, on Wilshire Blvd. in midtown, Los Angeles, where he  was known for his adeptness at cutting the best slices of lox  and making the customers happy. He seemed to accept everyone on the outside..strangers loved him.'

But at night after his day at all the jobs he took to support us,  When I heard the footsteps of my father,

it was never "oh for joy" daddys home, !

It was the grouchy  warden coming, and how could i escape.

I was  in his prison.

 From the  age of  12,

all i did was plot my leave, and count the days till 18 when I could move out of  the  small, suffocating apartment in Hollywood we called home.

I never saw my father read a book, a magazine,or select a record to listen too,  He never put on a radio station that he liked, help my mother, without yelling at her, or buy himself a pair of pants, or shoes.

I never saw my father take time to make something for us kids to eat,or  sit down teach us anything.

 we didn't know how to talk to him in a conversational tone.

The sound from our living room always sounded like an argument we "scream talked" to each other,

We were there, merely  there, to wait on him...he was completely dependent on  others in the areas of Home life.

The only thing he did like was cowboy movies. He lived for those cowboy movies...I imagine in his dreams he was out on the prairie riding and roping and shooting the Indians.

My mother would have to yell at my father; that it was 'time to take a shower" that he was shtinkink!...she hated ciggarettes my mom.

But  I loved the smell of my father.

If i was lucky enough to sit close to him on the couch, I would always throw my arms around papa and say  I love you daddy, gimme  a kiss ....my fathers body was a soft, secretive, hairless chest of white and blue and veins, and stinky feet, that bore the weight of a three pack a day smoker who lived on sugar....

He would holler at me to get off him, and oy vey!

you are too Heavy, 

"go get me a an apple" go get me a trink of vater!

"get up and change the channel"get a way from me...leave me alone...go in the other room...

That is what I was good for...

Poppa Never, ever saw me for who I am..my worth,  my artistry, my need for Love, my ever suffering sense of self , let alone  esteem...

I was battered emoionally, and always reminded of other kids, who were battered physically..'.you vant de belt? you vant de belt?' (poppa pretending to take off his belt to hit me)

'smell de belt' he would threaten...'c'mon smell it!'

but I never ever got the belt.

 only once,  did he hit me ...when he caught me smoking...i was 12 years old and already sneaking, marlboro reds from him...spraying hairspray in the bathroom and taking a towel off the rack to keep the smoke from going under the door.

as a child i was embarrased of his accent.

When I grew up, it became a source of  my pride....and humor.

My Poppa was born in Poland . He was a Concentration camp survivor. Not only  had he survived one camp, but many....

The stories I have heard from other relatives about him were of Heroism and " street smarts"...

After the war , and before I was born, he was deemed an unbelievable man  of courage, as he smuggled cows, from Germany to Poland,so those left

behind had meat. 

He was also a  champion soccer player, known as 'Moishe Puddeh'

the man with the big heart, and big muscles, courage, strong athletic abilities,. able and  ever avoiding the gestapo, the hero who found apples, for the starving,

 tossing them over the fence, to his one true and only Love, 'Henya.' (not my Mother).

This is a  man who would trade place in line, while  Nazi's made their choice who would work?...who would die?

and Pops, according to the stories,  would be posing  as someone else,

because he wasn't afraid,  he knew he could out manuver the Nazi's...!

By the time my parents arrived in America,  he became another man.

A man,  who repeated the mantra " i am sick and tired " I am sick and

tired."..whose lack of  the English language. made him a bullying 'arguer for the sake of arguing' .. 

My Pa had a smile that could light up a room. He loved company....i used to wish if only company had lived with us full time, so pops could show off, and be happy.

Everyone on the outside world, Loved my poppa, even my friends. When he smiled he meant it..

And you had to smile too.

 In the big picture. By the time I met my dad he was, tired and old,and 29 year old, 

A man who had  heroiclally survived the camps.... and now was surviving  my Mother.