Linda

 

“What's in a name? That which we call [Linda] by any other name would smell just as sweet.” William Shakespeare - Romeo and Juliet

When I go to sleep, I never count sheep,

I count all the charms about Linda.

And lately it seems, in all of my dreams,

I walk with my arms about Linda.

The song was written in 1942 by Jack Lawrence but was not recorded until 1946. Lawrence wrote the song to herald the arrival of the daughter of Lee Eastman, his friend and attorney. I too arrived, albeit with much less fanfare, a couple of years later. By the time of my unceremonious entry into this world, the song had long inundated the radio airwaves and every mother lacking in imagination had named her daughter Linda as, of course, had mine. 

Consequently, throughout my elementary school years, Lindas were sprinkled in the midst of every classroom. If our current teacher lacked intellectual creativity, we were rechristened Linda1, Linda2, etc.; somewhat robotic, but nonetheless innocuous. If the next class year’s teacher had one scintilla of originality, our middle names commonly were used instead. This typically did bode well for me since Linda was my preference. When it was my turn to stand and recite my middle name, I would respond with Genoveffa - G-e-n-o-v-e-f-f-a. After speech returned to the awe struck teacher, it would be suggested that I remain ‘Linda’, while the others were poetically remanded to Shakespeare’s question: “what’s in a name”. 

Meanwhile, back at the home front, my various aunts and uncles were busily procreating boys. For years, only male cousins spewed forth with great regularity, while I stood, pretty and pink in frilly dresses and shiny shoes. Princess Linda was loved and spoiled by every family member. Life was great, until it all came crashing down one sun filled day when the unthinkable happened. An aunt gave birth to a daughter. Another girl in the family? Wait. What. Even worse, she was named Linda. What? What!!!! Not only had I lost my “only girl” Princess crown, but I had lost it to a knockoff? What? What!! In one black hearted moment, I fully understood Maleficent’s deepest desire and darkest motivation to smite her nemesis. Real life transformed from glorious living color to mundane black and white and I was only five years old. The all consuming humiliation was somewhat mitigated after another family member (and I honestly can’t remember if it was my dad or another uncle), said that the second Linda naming was undoubtedly due to the resounding success of the first Linda. Admittedly, I reflected on that truth and came to accept the reasoning behind it. 

Time passed. In high school, I was now just another Linda —with an “i”, not a “y”. As we all learned from Jersey Boys, “‘y’ is a bullshit letter; it doesn’t know if it’s a vowel or a consonant”. We were traveling through the early 60s. The Beach Boys’ California sound was ever present. Bermuda shorts and sockless loafers were in vogue. Jan and Dean, bless them, stepped up with their pop version of Linda and once again I was on top. L-L-L-L-L-L-L-Linda

But, just like a fading summer tan, the later 60s’ California sunshine moment paled to the London sound of the Beatles. Of course our parents were horrified. The Beatles had long hair, they were irreverent, they wore odd clothes, they were pasty-faced. After listening to my mother sermonizing on the downfall of the world’s morality because of the Beatles’ music, I joyously pondered aloud — why, then, would she name me after the wife of Paul McCartney. Recall that Lee Eastman named his daughter Linda. Linda Eastman grew up and married Paul McCartney. It was a pure ‘circle of life’ moment.

Today, whenever I meet a woman named Linda, I know that she is around my age, give or take a year or two on either side of my driver’s license. If the lady is much younger, then I’ll learn that she’s named after her mother or, horrors, her grandmother. The name alone is a great conversation starter. On occasion, I will remark that I was named after a song. As the silent drum roll goes off in my head, I wait for the inevitable question: “what was the name of the song?” Followed by the inevitable eye roll. 

So, to unimaginative mothers everywhere, we Lindas say thank you for not naming us Blanche, Agnes, Bertha or Philumina . Heck, even Frank Sinatra extolled Linda’s virtues. How could that be wrong.

But miracles still happen

And when my lucky star begins to shine

With one lucky break I'll make Linda mine.

June Brides

We were watching an old TCM movie the other night; black and white. It ended with the innocent young bride gazing trustingly into the eyes of her equally eager groom while they breathlessly whispered vows of eternal love and devotion to each other. White lace and promises; ah, young love. It was so dear. All four happy parents watched over the tidings with full hearts and benevolent smiles, as did all the other guests inside the church. While I tried desperately to keep that pure and wistful moment in my heart, I was nonetheless reminded of an equally cynical remark by an old friend that went something like: “Look deep into those eyes and that figure, ‘cause pal, she’ll never be that thin again and she'll never look at you like that again; while she stares at him not appreciating that he’ll never have that much hair again and that, likewise, Dunlap disease will take over soon.” (Note: Dunlap disease applies when the stomach dun-lap over the belt).

Since it was a night for reminiscing, I was harkened back to my own youth. I was coming of age during the 1960s. Such political and social unrest; such life changing contradictions. Women wanted jobs and burned their bras, while other women wanted pumps and pearls and socialite networking. Men were trying to escape the draft. "Make love, not war", they said, while burning flags and storming college deans’ offices. And there at the dinner table sat my father, wondering aloud how to navigate his family’s lives during these turbulent times. His feelings about his sons and daughter were so conflicted that even he couldn’t make sense of them. As the father of the bride, he pondered: “after he violates her, is he going to make her go out and work?” Meanwhile, mother of the groom was musing: “is she going to freeload off him or get a job?” It was the 60s — nothing has ever been the same. 

The movie ended ‘happily ever after’, but once again it brought up the question that I’ve puzzled over for many years during my legal career: when is the couple legally married? Is it: 

(a) after the bride and groom both say ‘I do’ at the altar (‘a verbal contract ain’t worth the paper it’s written on’, as Samuel Goldwyn famously remarked); or is it 

(b) when the marriage certificate is signed (a contract signed by both parties is legally binding, technically); or is it 

(c) when the certificate is actually filed with the court. As every lawyer knows, until the document is filed with the court, signing and serving don’t mean a thing. Or, is it 

(d) when the band plays Proud Mary.  

Who among us has not watched a movie wherein the bride was shot by a jealous ex while pledging her troth at the altar. She already said “I do” but the marriage was not consummated, so where did that leave the groom? How many movies were about a couple who discovered that they were not legally married because the marriage took place in a foreign country or the certificate was lost by the postman. When is the marriage legal? Over the years, many lawyers have been queried, but that question still has not been answered to my satisfaction.

However, it’s June and I wonder, do brides still marry in June or do they go straight to single mom and dispense with the groom. Whatever happened to white lace and promises. Cynical? Yes and yet, here I am, happily (and legally) married; I'm pretty sure. . . . 

No Biz Like Show Biz

It’s been a while since anything of note has happened around here, not that there isn’t always something, but I will leave you to ruminate on the current saga. A few weeks ago I had wandered in to the yacht club because I had one appointment finish early and another too soon to drive all the way home, so I thought I would park myself at the club car and have a bowl of chowder while I waited for time to pass. 

It happened that the manager was sitting at a nearby table with another member and pointed to me, saying “Linda would be perfect”. Perfect? Well, anytime anyone says I would be perfect of course makes me perk up in agreement, which is how I found myself consenting to appear as an actor in a murder mystery dinner that the yacht club was putting on for its members. 

This begs the question: How did I escape 40+ years of life in Los Angeles with no thespian inklings whatsoever but find myself here in a town of 300 with the smell of the greasepaint, etc. Worse, I was to play the visibly upset and snarky ex-girlfriend of the groom who was to find himself dead at his own reception. “I will not be ignored” was my mantra. Admittedly, this was good casting, since I’m more of an Auntie Mame than an Aunt Bee.

Our little group met and rehearsed sporadically over the next few weeks, enjoying ourselves immensely, and wondering how we were going to get this act together in time for anyone to take us at all seriously. “Professional” was not an adjective that applied to us. We oftentimes had to stop the rehearsal because we had laughed ourselves silly. We were having a good time; I only hoped that the audience would too. 

We were ready, except that during the morning of the final dress rehearsal we received an email from the yacht club manager letting us know that something catastrophic had happened and that the club would be closed for a few days. The commercial water heater blew up and what with all the product shortages, etc the closest one was located somewhere in Indiana. Wait. What? We closed before we opened? We only knew that the play would be presented “sometime in the near future”, by which time I was sure that I would have forgotten all my ad libs and my real lines. This was my Shakespearean tragedy; just to keep things in perspective.

As for the cast, the ‘young' lady who played the bride is one generation removed. When I mentioned Spartacus she was not familiar with the reference. She was familiar with Michael Douglas; I had used the reference from Fatal Attraction: “I will not be ignored”, which led me to explain that Kirk was Michael’s father and that the reference to “I am Spartacus” had to do with solidarity and camaraderie. Jeez, kids.

Dionysus, the Greek god of festivity and theater, was on our side. A water heater was found in Baltimore, installed and the play went on as scheduled. We all had to scramble to pull out our scripts and bring them to our forefront memories.

Speaking of cautionary tales, during the summer, I am fortunate to have lovely nails, but come the winter my nails peel, crack and break off so I keep them short. That said, I decided that, for this acting role, I needed to have nice long nails. I hied myself to Target and bought a set of fake glue on nails; very long, very pointy glue on nails, which I wore for the dress rehearsal the night before the play. However, after gluing them on I realized that they were quite the hardship. They were very long and very pointy. Dressing myself proved to be a safety hazard. And I was dressed, baby, in 4” heels, a short kicky black silk dress that amply displayed my ‘charms’ and patterned stockings with a seam up the back. The nails served me well for the final rehearsal, but when I returned home I realized that I couldn’t even take off my pantyhose for fear of poking a hole in them and pantyhose are hard to come by these days. While Scott didn’t mind undressing me, he even volunteered, I realized that this was a hugely idiotic mistake on my part. 

It was time to read the fine print on nail removal. Not only had I used too much glue but my real nails were now throbbing. I had visions of my real nails dissolving down to my skin, leaving me with no nails at all. The next morning I soaked my nails (as the instructions said, for at least 15 minutes) but after an hour of soaking, nothing had changed; I added nail polish remover to the water, but still nothing. Now I was very nervous. I finally called the local salon who agreed to squeeze me in on an emergency basis. Scott drove ‘cause the nails hampered my driving abilities. The removal process was a long, painful, tedious and expensive disaster. Don’t try this at home. The manicurist was sympathetic but quite pleased with the challenge, not having had anything this exciting in a long time. Scott, meanwhile, walked next door to the local guy who sets himself up on the weekend with BBQ ribs and chicken. We returned home happily; Scott with BBQ ribs and me with clean nails. 

The evening in question started out badly in true ‘break a leg’ tradition. What else could possibly go wrong. An overturned tanker in the middle of the only highway into town caused a traffic back up so the evening did not start at 5:30 as planned. Instead it began at 6:15. 

Ninety people filled the room to capacity, some of whom had arrived on time since they were locals and had spent more time than necessary at the bar so there was much gladness and cheer. Finally, the room was seated. The show officially began when I crashed the wedding reception line and introduced myself to the family. “I will not be ignored.” After the reception line horror and ensuing scandal from the uninvited guest’s arrival, there was a respite in the performance to allow the room to enjoy dinner. Immediately after dinner I was supposed to clink the glass and loudly chime 'kiss the bride’, which was the cue to restart the play, but someone in the audience did the clinking during the meal, and other people followed. The cast didn’t know what to do so they started the first scene of the after dinner play. None of us were sure what to do next. Fortunately, the wedding planner/director ad libbed enough to return the play to its original staging and we settled back to finish our dinners. 

After the meal was finished, the groom toasted the bride and sipped the poisoned champagne, followed by a harrowing death scene, after which the best man and the father of the bride forgot to remove his body so he continued to lay on the ground while the cast moved forward with the play. When the audience started throwing pieces of bread at the dead groom, still laying on the ground, the wedding planner/director realized the grand error so she asked a couple of waiters to carry him to the back closet. As we continued, during the detective’s interrogations, trying to keep a straight face, we all said something that resembled our original lines until the play concluded. 

The audience was asked to enter their guess as to who killed the groom. A $150 gift certificate went to the winner. Only 14 people thought I did it. The room capacity was 90. There were six others who could have done it. Meryl Streep had nothing to worry about. 

What surprised me, though, afterwards, when the play was over and we “actors" wandered amongst our friends the dinner guests, to say hi blah blah blah, was how everyone said that it had been so much fun, that they had had such a good time. My cynical supposition is that after two years of solitude and boredom this audience was ready for anything that remotely resembled entertainment. 

There is talk of another murder mystery performance in the fall; we’ll see.