Gratitude: A Letter to the Universe

Dear Universe:
Thank you for the cool water trickling through my veins at last. Thank you for sending me the impulse to buy the Harper's Bazaar Fall Fashion issue so that I could read very nearly the whole four-pound book while waiting for a plane.

Thank you for an old, worn-in and wonderful friendship. For someone who cared enough to track down and drive to the only second-run theater in the St. Louis area still showing Sex & the City so that I could see it on the big screen. Thank you for the release mid-movie where I started to cry - and I so needed to. Thank you for a dream to own the Something Blue Satin Pump.

Thank you for time surrounded by flowers and plants of both the common and exotic variety. For time spent wandering through a woodland garden that transported my spirit to England. For the spontaneity to jump in a fountain and spend the rest of the afternoon slightly damp.

Thank you for chocolate - in martinis and cupcakes and mousse and truffle cake and plain old Hershey's chocolate bars eaten in a dark theater.

Thank you for art. For the burning red intensity of the Rothko. The charred haunting representation of Chernobyl in Burning Rods. For images and lines and color and textures that coalesced into visual emotion.

Thank you for a burst of laughter, for airplaning around a living room singing "That's How You Know" - badly. Thank you for turning laughter into giggles.

Thank you, Universe, for a little break. Thank you for the joy of hugs, the joy of words between friends. The joy of silence between friends. The joy of food shared with friends.

Thank you for friends. And thank you, friend.

Love,
Ashley

Silence

After yesterday's blissful nothingness, I'm going to embrace it for a few days. I'm going to dive into it like cool, blue undulating water and let it wash over me. In the ongoing dog days of summer, I'm going to live in deep water. I'm going to turn down the volume on life, let the waves mute the outside world and slice through the crystal-clean silence. I'm going to live in my head for a few days and make that a nice place to be. I'm going to see a friend and let that nourish my soul. I'll be back soon...until then, enjoy the silence.

Lazy Sunday

This morning, Mom made an executive decision: we'd all had enough.

Instead of getting up at the regular time for church on Sunday, she got up, let the Ranger cat out the door and went back to bed. I finally cracked an eyelid around 10 and ambled down the hall. Mom was still in her pajamas. Dad had just thrown on a shirt to go downstairs. I could hear the coffeepot downstairs was issuing the gurgles of its first round of percolation.

We all sat around drinking coffee in our PJs until almost noon, when we realized we were hungry. We had eggs, grits, toast and fresh sliced tomatoes. I indulged in a third cup of coffee.

I took a long, hot shower. I let my hair mostly air dry. I put on a cami-tank top and shorts. I read a book. About 2 o'clock, I fell asleep again on the couch in the living room.

Dad fell asleep watching today's NASCAR race. When I woke up, Mom was back in bed reading a book.

The phone didn't ring. We talked in snatches, but it was mostly quiet. Calm. Serene.

We had tomato sandwiches for dinner. And then retreated to our respective druthers - books and computer games. Catching up on emails.

And the sun fell below the horizon and night stole quietly across the lawn. And for the first time in weeks, I felt still inside. Instead of droning bees stinging every corner of my mind, it was whisper-quiet.

Even though the weekend is over, the Sunday Dread seems to be held at bay by - of all things - nothingness.

Separated by - Olympic Edition

Separated by the 9-0 Area Code
(Phelps' swimmer pal Ryan Lochte and Jason Priestly, aka Brendan Walsh)











Separated by a Cape & Kryptonite
(Amazingly strong and fascinating Chinese rings gymnast Chen Yibing and Superman)












Separated by the Mean Green
(Big-mouthed swaggering French swimmer Alain Bernard and Incredible Hulk Lou Ferrigno)













Separated by Slightly Annoying Scoring Tips
(Gymnastics gold medalist and commentator Tim Daggett and consumer advocate Clark Howard)













Separated by the West Water Wing
(Swimmer Aaron Piersol and Bradley Whitford)

Why So Scrunchious?

I understand that Olympic competition isn't about vanity. As noted by Nik, the swimsuits tend to make the women look, well, less than feminine. And let's face it - there's zero room for boobs at the Olympic games. But one thing I don't understand...is the scrunchy.

I know the gymnasts have to keep their hair out of their eyes. Whether for sheer aerodynamics or because a stray wisp will cost them a one one-hundredths deduction. But that's what hairspray is for. Don't have any? See the US Men's Gymnastics team.

The use of the scrunchy as an instrument of severe hairstyling doesn't even make sense. Back in fourth grade when I wore these - hey, hey, they were acceptable at the time - they were rather loose fitting and I always had to wear a rubberband under them. The scrunchy was simply for aesthetics.

And though I don't condone the millions of barrettes dotting the scalps of the competitors, I can see how these clips would keep the hair at bay. But the scrunchy - oh, odious scrunchy! Why dost thou plague the Olympians?

I find myself particularly surprised by the US athletes sporting them. Somehow, I can convince myself that in Eastern Europe, scrunchies are still partying like it's 1999. In China? Maybe it feng shui to wear a scrunchy. But in the good ol' U.S. of A.? I know it's simply not done. Low marks for the fashion faux pas.

An Addiction of Olympic Proportions

Last night, I crouched in our living room at 11:45, tense, coiled and watched Jason Lezak start to overtake Alain Borden. And then I leapt into the air and whisper screamed, “Go! Go! Go!” Lezak touched the wall just eight hundredths of a second ahead of Borden, who had bragged earlier in the day that the French team would “smash the Americans.” Michael Phelps let out what could only be described as a barbaric yelp – and took home his second gold of the ’08 summer Olympics in Beijing.

This is the confession of an Olympic junkie. So far, I have watched men’s and women’s gymnastics, beach volleyball, water polo, double scull rowing, badminton, weightlifting, swimming, synchronized diving – need I go on? Events I haven’t yet watched likely just haven’t happened yet. If it’s Olympic competition, I will watch it. (With one exception – I don’t enjoy watching Kobe rock his NBA star attitude during the Olympics, so I don’t watch men’s basketball…but that’s another story.)

I love the stories – the journeys from humble beginnings to greatness. I love the unbelievable feats – 41-year-old Dara Torres already taking silver; a 33-year-old woman competing on Germany’s gymnastics team. Michael Phelps and his quest for record gold. It makes me scream and cry and jump up and down. I want to hug someone. I want to call them heroes. I want to give the world a Coke. Go World!

P.S. I'm posting this in between watching the men's gymnastics finals - at quarter past midnight!

I...

...went to an event tonight that was outside. People. Come on now. It's August. In Georgia.

...want to post more than a list but it's like, my brain is too...humid?

...kind of love Paulo on Shear Genius

...loaned my intern my She's the Man DVD because she hadn't seen it. Criminal.

...can't stop listening to Adele's "Chasing Pavements" and Estelle's "American Boy" (featuring Kanye)

...have eaten nothing but tomato sandwiches all week. Seriously.

...am playing the world's longest game of phone tag with Kim Shable

...hate being disappointed in people

....think that Terry on Project Runway kinda looks like Michael Jackson, circa Thriller, but maybe it's just that red jacket she wore last week

....thought Paris Hilton's mock presidential ad was hilarious. Well done, Paris Hilton.

...have never before been reading so many books at one time

...bought a plane ticket to go see Jenn in St. Louis in two weeks!

...am tired. And going to bed now.

TTLY Syndrome

I've always had a particularly pronounced sense memory. Smells, sounds, even a certain atmosphere, light - all provoke the return of sharp visceral memories for me. This little trick came in handy at times during acting classes when I was in college. But on a day to day basis, this sensitivity piles up into what I refer to as TTLY Syndrome or "This Time Last Year Syndrome" (TTLYS).

The oppressive heat and humidity of the last fews days have thrown me into last year's frame of mind. Indeed, the past few weeks have brought on a bewildering myriad of memories. This time last year, I was interviewing for The Job. I was feeling bereft and rootless. I was waiting.

And inside, away from the shimmering heat, in the cool darkness of my brain, the chemicals were sliding out of the proper equation. My stomach was burning, turning itself inside out almost every night. The Panic was coming.

This time last year was a tipping point, away from what was and toward what is. It was a precarious lean into the unknown. Everything was tossed into the air, floating down in a slow-motion freefall with no end in sight. Everything was all questions and no answers. The unknown was my only friend.

It's back again, like a second wave. I am waiting. Waiting for a movement away from this stalemate of grief. This terrible endgame, all the pieces on the board and nowhere to go. The Panic is rising. I waffle on the edge of nausea, try to push it down, pray through it. The unknown is siddling up next to me...it's reminding me that in a year, I haven't made very many strides. I haven't built the life I envisioned.

The heat lashes down on me when I walk out of work each day. I stumble through the evenings, fight the TTLYS washing through my veins. I remind myself that I have moved down the road, made progress. That I'm waiting and panicking and befriending the unknown because I had not choice when life jumped the rails in February.

Tonight, Dad said to me, "I feel like...we're never going to be normal again." And somehow, seeing the weight of it on his face, hearing the crushing reality in his words, I thought, "Not any time soon."

As I stare down the barrel of TTLYS right now, I rue the next season of it - the last season where everything was normal. And that season followed by the one where everything fell apart.

The Breakfast Club: Now Requiring AARP Membership

I went to see The Dark Knight on Thursday with my intern, Kat. She's 21. Before the previews started, the new JC Penny back-to-school promo aired. It features a revved up version of "Don't You Forget About Me" and steals the general premise of The Breakfast Club, compacting it into one minute to sell jeans and other tween fashion sensations.

I leaned over to Kat. "You know, the funny thing about this is that the audience they're trying to appeal to wasn't even born when this movie came out."

"Oh," she said. "This is based on a movie?"

Potpourri

*Helped Mom and Justin can six gallon-sized freezer bags of fresh tomatoes today. Dad picked up two five-gallon buckets from a friend of his on Friday night. We've had tomatoes for every meal since - including Justin's and Mom's summer marinara pasta sauce with sausage. Deeelish.

* Went to see The Dark Knight with my dear intern on Thursday night. It was delightful to go with a 21-year-old who giggled every time I mentioned how hot Christian Bale is. Oh, and the movie lives up to the hype.

* Dreamed last night that I was at a conference (in Hotel Entrapment, as fate would have it) at which I was forced to attend a Civil War reenactment.

* Due to my father's weekly watching, I'm...um...kind of beginning to like NASCAR. And, for the record, Kasey Kahne is very cute.

* The Tales of Beetle the Bard will be available from Amazon in December. I reserve judgment. It's both thrilling and...well, also potentially a recipe for extreme disappointment. I hope it takes us back to a delicious, bittersweet bit of the Potterverse...and doesn't fall flatter than an overused Fanged Frisbee.

* I wish I could resist the urge to click on the People.com link and feed the Brangelina Baby frenzy. But...I...just...couldn't...not...click.

* Hired a real dynamo at the office last week. No really. She's conversational in 13 languages. I felt my job security slipping.

* School is starting this week. It makes me want to buy pencils. And a Trapper Keeper.

* Today we made blackberry cobbler out of the last of the summer blackberries, and it was August.

From Somewhere on the Third Floor Corridor...

from The Big Jewel

Letter from the Hogwarts Alumni Office
by Mike Richardson-Bryan

Mr. Harry Potter
Godric's Hollow
Gloucestershire
BS37 A10

Dear Mr. Potter,

Greetings from Hogwarts! Has it really been nineteen years since you last strode the hallowed halls of Britain's finest school of magic? Even without the assistance of a Time-Turner, time truly flies.

A lot has changed at Hogwarts since you graduated. Aldis lamps have replaced owls, golf carts have replaced Thestrals, and safe, reliable lifts have replaced the more capricious of the moving staircases. And what's that in the library? Yes, it's the school's very first computer, a Commodore 64, which I'm assured by those in the know is the very pinnacle of Muggle technology. Huzzah for progress!

And there have been important changes behind the scenes, as well. Long-overdue restructuring at the top has produced a leaner administration that is more responsive to today's educational priorities, including student safety. Indeed, thanks to stringent new hiring practices, only one out of every three Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers turns out to be an evil impostor bent on murdering students.

But as much as Hogwarts has changed, it remains, at heart, the same school you knew and loved in your youth. Peeves still torments students and teachers alike, the Whomping Willow still exacts a terrible toll on migratory birds, and Moaning Myrtle still haunts the second floor girls' lavatory despite repeated attempts at exorcism and generous applications of Febreze. And as it always has, Hogwarts continues to rely upon the generous support of former students like yourself.

Such support has never been more important. The recent unionization of the House Elves placed terrible stress on the school's finances. That stress that can be felt everywhere, even in Hogwarts' legendary kitchen, where the need for belt-tightening means that each student is now limited to 5 lbs. of pudding per meal. Increases in tuition have helped, but endless fee hikes are not the answer. So until Professor Longbottom's Knut-tree experiment yields tangible results, we're counting on the generous support of former students like yourself.

Your support will allow Hogwarts to maintain its position as a leader in magical research. Consider the work of Professor Chang, who has attracted international attention with her groundbreaking research into the mating habits of Dementors (not so different from the mating habits of middle-aged divorcees, as it turns out, only with a lot less crying in restaurants). Without your support, such research may not be possible.

Your generosity will also allow us to keep the lights on and the doors open at the Trelawney Memorial Wellness Centre. Today's students face many temptations, from old standbys such as Butterbeer to more recent and infinitely more sinister addictions such as Gillyweed, or "Willy G." as the kids call it (and take it from me, there's nothing sadder than the sight of a once-promising student, lying face-down in a pail of water, "tripping out" on Gillyweed). Without a place to turn, many struggling students will not find the help they need when they so desperately need it.

Finally, your support will allow Hogwarts to remain within financial reach of all deserving students. Scholarships for needy students are always in short supply, and scholarships for dead, undead, and demonically-possessed students are particularly hard to come by. Without your support, many reanimated students may be forced to abandon their studies and go directly into middle management.

So what can you afford to give? Before answering, think back to your time at Hogwarts. There was lots of hard work, of course, but there was always time for fun -- chatting with your mates in the Common Room, sneaking out to Hogsmeade to buy sweets at Honeydukes (inevitably followed by hours spent chasing after an errant Chocolate Frog), dancing with your sweetheart at the Yule Ball, and the like. No doubt you have many such happy memories. If not, please check your Pensieve, they're probably in there. And after reviewing them, I'm sure you'll agree that you can't put a price on good memories -- but that if you could, it would include at least four figures.

The sad truth, Mr. Potter, is that financial support from your year has always been rather lean. This is not because your classmates are indifferent to the school's needs, but rather because so many of them are dead, killed by You-Know-Who and his minions, often quite horribly (speaking of which, a few more bits of poor Dean Thomas turned up just last week, a testament to the awesome power of the Fulminare Viscus curse). Now, considering that You-Know-Who was after you the whole time and that your unlucky classmates merely got in the way, it seems only fair that you should do your utmost to make up the difference. I'm sure you'll agree that your alma mater deserves no less.

Yours truly,

Fitch T. Fenwick
Director, Office of Alumni Relations
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

P.S. -- If you need one more reason to support Hogwarts, then consider your old house's Quidditch team. They're suffering their worst year in generations on account of the sad state of repair of their equipment (the beaters must share a single tattered broom, and the seeker has no broom whatsoever and so must to run around making "whoosh" noises and hope that the Golden Snitch dips low enough to be snared from the ground, which of course it never does). Something to think about the next time you're at Gringotts, rolling in your money or whatever it is you do there when the Goblins aren't looking.


Hmmm....sound familiar?

Coming Soon to a Blog Near You

* Yes, Penelope, it's time for a AshCentric ProRun roundup. I have to say, so far, this season's stylist have me a little baffled. Holla!

* An explanation of TTLY Syndrome and why it's killing me.

* A post of a hilarious Potter-themed letter sent to me by Jenn's husband Dan

* A little bit more about the volunteer group that I've undertaken - which I think is seriously happening since I met with my boss about it today (*gulp*)

* In the meantime, please enjoy this graphic from TagCrowd. It gives you a picture of what your blog says about you - it's kind of like a variation on magnetic poetry.

age almost around ash ashley birthday blog calls cat dillon dream eva fall feeling felt gas going gonna harry hotel john jungle least leave life looking love mayer mind myself office places pm posted potter really room sadness something sometimes stay stop things thoughts today waiting week work year yesterday

created at TagCrowd.com

Half-Tease

Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince hits theaters later this year (November 21, to be exact). And while I am one of the last in America who has yet to see The Dark Knight and the ONLY one of the female persuasion who missed Sex & the City in the theater and now has to wait for it on DVD (please leave your condolences in the comments section), you can bet your galleons I'll be at the Potter flick. The film's teaser trailer will be in the previews for the third installment of The Mummy series which is debuting this weekend. USA Today published screen caps today of two notable scenes: young Tom Riddle at the orphanage and Dumbledore's ring of fire. Other film stills floating around the internets feature Ron in his quidditch gear and Harry in Slughorn's office, presumably to gather that foggy memory. And while I'm still sad about my BIG S&TC faux-pas, I can at least console myself with the impending next-to-last installment of Potter. Oh, and the full trailer can be viewed here.*



*Um, I posted before watching the trailer. Which is AWESOME. I'm such a dork.

Great Expectations

It is with great pleasure that I announce that I'm going to be an aunt for the second time around. Justin and Eva are adding another one to the fold, and their family of three will be four come March.

They heard the baby's heartbeat early last week, and the doctor pronounced it strong and healthy. Unfortunately for poor Eva, she's feeling a bit green.

And me? At first, I felt trepidations - what if I don't connect with the new baby like I have with Dillon? And then, I remembered the day Dillon arrived, a totally unknown quantity, sparking the deepest, most unconditional love. And then I thought...I can hardly wait.

Late for the Terrible Twos

Just like last year, I totally forgot my own blogiversary. But then again, it would be out of character for me to be on time. I'll forever be the white rabbit, scurrying to make the next important appointment.

I started to let it pass without saying, but then, I rather thought I should embrace my new tradition of celebrating that which ought to be celebrated. So here's to the year that chronicled the beginning of the new job and, with great sadness, the end of my time with loved ones. In the space of 12 months - from July to July - everything changed. Change is constant, and while not always welcome, reliable.

As I head into the terrible twos of blogdom, you can like anticipate further self-centeredness, an increase in tantrums, and a few posts that remind me why you love me. Happy Blogiversary.

You've Got Mail

If y'all haven't been patrons at the Smartini Bar of late, maybe you've at least clicked on the sidebar links to my open letter to John Mayer. And maybe you subsequently clicked on the link that indicating that I had e-mailed said post to John Mayer. And if you haven't done steps one and two, please do so now. There you will find the kind comments from one Doogie Jacks/a.k.a. DJ imparting a message to me from JM. Whether or not John Mayer actually read my blog post...I don't know. But I like to think he did. I like to think he read it and it made him chuckle and he turned to somebody who answers his fanmail and the like and said, "DJ, put a comment up there. I like her style." Or something like that.

And by the way, John, if you're still reading, I'm not even sure I can come up with a haiku for the new 'do...but I'll work on it.

We All Scream for Ice Cream

Emotional Pickpocketing

Yesterday was the Rockstar's last day. Last week, I went to his farewell outing - a bowling extravaganza filled with shouts and razzing and toasts and a definite sadness tinging the whole affair. A part of me absorbed it...felt sad because he is leaving, and after a year, I'd like to think I could call him a friend. But it was also the memory of all that I went through last year seeping from the corners of my mind. As the departure was unfolding, I could see little flashes of my own life layered over his. When he hugged me yesterday, and I wished him luck, I felt like I was talking to myself a little bit...a little bit letting go of that person I was then and wishing her luck as she tries to become the person she is now.

***
More and more lately, I've been feeling the quiet beginnings of the panic. The disrupted stomach. The irrational anxiety of anticipating "it." I went to the doctor last week who asked if I wanted to up my dosage. And I said no, I should try and do this. I should try and do this life thing without having to adjust my medication up and up and up. So I'm pushing through, pushing up the threshold of discomfort and willing myself to work through it, one deep breath at a time.

***
I turned 29 earlier this month. And while I flogged my coworkers for the lack of festivities surrounding my birthday, it was really me that caused the disappointment. It was really me who didn't celebrate myself. It was really me who let my birthday be a reminder of all the things I'm not, all the things I lack, instead of all the things I am and all the things I have. What an empty feeling to be consumed by absences on a day that should be spent building a totem of great memories and accomplishments.

***
My laptop has been a source of immense frustration of late. One of the hinges has cracked and the lid won't stay upright, falling instead into an almost horizontal position. On top of that, some part of Microsoft Office is malfunctioning, auto-launching, and utilizing 99% of my CPU capacity. And it's like, Really? Is everything in my life broken?

***
Yesterday, on the drive home, I felt restless. I shifted in the seat. I peered through the grubby windshield at the searing cerulean sky. I saw a few blue-black crows perched in the naked branches of a dying tree. It felt like someone might cue the classic Sergio Leone whistle in the background. It was a showdown between me and waiting. It's been so long on this precipice, me perched, angled forward, looking for what's next. And held back by the gravity of all that's happened. I'm waiting for something - something good and hopeful. Something that gives me an indication that there is a way out of this valley of the shadow of death and not just endless wandering.

***
We start looking at the weekends coming up through the end of the summer and the fall and planning out who has to do what when and where. I realize how scheduled we are with this and that family obligation - things I would normally look forward to, but now seem like just another outing that will perpetuate our togetherness. I could stay home, stay away, but even the thought of it starts the guilt to gnawing away at me. In my mind, coulds and shoulds and wants and needs get so tangled up that I don't know what to do. So I stay tied up in where I am right now, resenting all the hands on the other ends of the strings that are pulling me in every direction.

***
Despite my bravado, I realized the other day that there's almost no chance that I'll even be married before I'm 30. And that's okay. Really. It is. I know that. But sometimes - just sometimes - I want to let my guard down and say that's not how I imagined things.

***
Last week, I had a really, really super important client meeting with the client I landed awhile back. I thought everything went well. I was nervous leading up to it, felt pretty A-game in the midst of it, and relieved as soon as the meeting participants filed out the door. I headed from the office to have a beer with some friends. I missed a call from my boss while I was in the bar. I called him back to find that at least one of the participants was disappointed and felt like we didn't deliver. And that fragile euphoria came crashing down around me, and I felt 16 tons of disappointment fall upon my shoulders.

***
This weekend, I woke up early to go to the salon with Anna, and when I got back home, I said, "I have to take a nap." And it was true. I was bankrupt.

With every passing day, it seems there's emotional thievery going on. These unexpected strains slip in and steal little pieces of me. There are those things that I face everyday that I know I'm going to spend my time and energy and willpower on - some that I even choose to exert some emotional funds for. But these stealthy hands that swipe my reserves are tearing me down a piece at a time, leaving me penniless. I'm utterly broke, with nothing left to give and not even enough for myself.

Occurences

Haircut - On Saturday, I accompanied Anna to the salon for a haircut. It was monumental because a) she had grown her hair out for Locks of Love b) she hadn't had her hair cut since Ronnie died and c) I can't recall the last time she had anything beyond a simple trim done. But she gritted her teeth through the initial scissor slice and now she has a shoulder length 'do that's really quite fetching.

Ash - Dillon has suddenly switching from "Sha" to "Ash." On Sunday, when we arrived to keep him so that his parents could celebrate their wedding anniversary, he ran to passenger side of the van calling "Ash! Ash!" And when I left for work yesterday morning he wouldn't give me a goodbye kiss because he wanted to play "cars." Mama said he stood at the door pitifully saying "Ash?" after I left.

Floor - For the first time in almost three decades, my mother is having the floors in our living room, dining room and den replaced with hardwoods. The crummy deteriorating carpet is being toted out and replaced with gleaming blond oak beams. Already today, the living room is woodsy. And she agreed to only put the furniture back in the room that she likes as opposed to just loading back in what's always been here.

Dancing - Last night, Mom and Dad were still at Justin and Eva's babysitting, so I had the house to myself. I watched She's the Man, and when the credits rolled to "Move Along" by the All-American Rejects, I gave into a fit of spontaneous dancing in the den. The cats looked perfectly scandalized. I thought it was magnificent.

Thank You for Being a Friend

It was with profound sadness that I read about Estelle Getty's death today.  At the age of 84, she passed away from the advanced onset of dementia. 



I can remember watching "Golden Girls" when I was little and getting about half of the wry humor Getty delivered as the wicker-handbag-toting Sophia Petrillo.  The show debuted in 1985 when I was just six years old and ran for seven years.



But my true love for the show came from my first year of grad school.  Reruns of the classic comedy ran on Lifetime at 7 and 7:30, and it wasn't unusual for me to park my TV tray (and sometimes my "TV dinner") in front of the back-to-back "Golden Girls" goodness.  The jokes seemed smarter; the friendships more understandable.  I'd even go so far as to say that the sitcom actually is one of the precursors to "Sex & the City."  No really.  The level of adult humor in that show is astounding for the age of the women, the stage of their lives, and the prime time spot it occupied for years.



Getty was the youngest of the foursome and almost didn't snag the role because of her incongruous youth.  Thank goodness the producers took a second look.  Picture it.  Siciliy.  1940.



Rest in peace, Estelle.