Me, Myself, and Oy!

By Sandi Bloomberg

Me, Myself, and Oy! Is a collection of poetry and prose reflecting the authors life as a Radio City Rockette, actress, singer, English teacher, wife, mother of three sons, grandmother, daughter of ailing parents, owner of a dance studio, director, choreographer, writer of childrens books, and the struggle to balance all in her quest for love and acceptance. Ms. Bloomberg writes from her heart, with honesty and humor, even in the darkest moments of her life.

Loneliness I know your name
How often I have played your game
I wear a smile to hide a tear
And no one ever knows youre here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477228470

Sandi Bloomberg

Sandi Bloomberg is a prolifi c poet, essayist, and author of short stories and children’s books. Her work has been published in many magazines and literary journals. Her monthly column, Sandi By The Sea, appears in Great South Bay Magazine. A former Radio City Rockette, Bloomberg is now getting her “kicks” from writing. In fact, many of her short stories and essays refl ect her memories from the Music Hall. After retiring from professional dance, Sandi received a BA in English and Theater Arts from Adelphi University and taught English at the prestigious High School of Art & Design in NYC. She later owned the North Shore Studio of Dance, in Huntington, Long Island, where she taught all the disciplines of Dance and directed two dance companies, The North Dance Theatre and The Red Hot Mamas. She lives on Long Island with her husband Jerry, her most ardent fan. Ms. Bloomberg has published seven children’s books, which she reads in libraries, schools, and book stores. They are all available on Amazon.com and on her web site Sandibloomberg.com.

Book preview

Contents

Dedication

Preface

Acknowledgements

SHORT

STORIES

Full Circle

Another Friday Night

A Quickie

The Audition

Cruisin’

The Ring

The Red Dress

ESSAYS

What Might Have Been

My Broadway Fantasy

A Look Back at 2000

Forever

All Abhorred!—March 1990

A Great Celebration!

To Sell or Not to Sell

The Renters

Fred and Ginger

The Wedding

Mom

My Turning Point

The Best Act in the Show!

Taproot

To Eat or Not to Eat

My Broadway Idol

A Princess—Forever

The Thing

Snakes Alive!

How I Became a Writer

of Children’s Books

Old Photos

Boot Camp

The Incident

In Cats—Out Cats

Memoirs of a Fisherman

An Early Childhood Memory

A Dream Come True

Trick or Treat

Strange Interventions

Halloween Memory

New Knees for an Old Rockette

Old Fogie

A Dad For All Reasons

A Night To Remember

At Last

You Can’t Go Home Again

Airport Insecurity

Almost Lost

By A Nose

Corey

CRS

Dancin’ Fool

When Lilacs Bloom

Queen Mary Two

Rockette’s 75th Anniversary

Stuck!

The Red Hot Mamas

Mr. Adventure

New Home for Rockette Alumnae

Structure House

Tap Dancing Mama

Wii are Nuts!

Lost and Found

Not So

A Brief Encounter

Youth in Asia

LETTERS

&

TRIBUTES

Michael

Eulogy for Daddy

Baby Jake 4/15/04

Father’s Day 6/19/11

Daddy

Dear Daddy,

We Already Love You

Toni

45 Years

Eulogy for Uncle Hymie

Dear Daddy

Labor Day

Dottie

To Jerry on Father’s Day

Dear Michael

Jenny

Eulogy for Aunt Ruthie

Mel

Brad

Rita

40 Years

Dear Boys

Dear Ronny

Maddie

Veronica

Mayor Bloomberg

Eileen

POEMS

Who Am I?

Thoughts

Anticipation of Grandmotherhood

December 7th

A Lover

Why

Rhythm of Life

The Forest

Dance

City Sounds

Measure for Measure

The Midnight Writer

Each One

On this our Silver Anniversary

I’m Angry—A Prayer

Full Bloom

No Title

Why

Mid-Life

Lessons

Unpredictable

From the Heart

My Ocean

Hello Again

My Friend

If Only

Lonliness

As Long As You’ve Got Love

Key West

An Ode to Beauty

Pops

Too Brief

Pippin

Jitters

Change

Empty Nest

The Family Tree

The Sea

Diet Blues

Mom

My Muse

Hurricane

Where Did You Go?

Who Am I?

Rockette Memories

Words Unspoken

Poetry

Time

To Sell Or Not To Sell [the poem]

What I Want

The Fire Island Wagon

Fire Island

Fire Island Golden Years

Beach

J’aime La Plage

Jerry’s Ferry

Get a Life!

Hurricane Rita

Katrina

Katrina

America

Letting Go

Little Prayers

Ocean Breeze

They Just Don’t Get It!

Time Out

Twenty Miles to Baghdad

{April 2, 2003}

Lessons

Good Night Sweet Princess

Love Lost

Vail

Claire

Bitter-Sweet

Old Friends

My Love

Around the Bend

Earthquake

Friendship Lost

Tankas & Time

In Just Three Days

Corey

So Short

The Surprise

Nothing Else

Bumpy Road 5/2/10

Ava

Once Lovely

Let’s Celebrate

My Boys

So Be it!

My Love

The Way You Love Me

Ode to Jerry on Father’s Day

A Not-So Losing Battle

The Golden Years

Why Oh Why?

Golden Years?

9/11 POEMS

Attack on America

Before 9/11

Day of Infamy 9/11

Aftermath

Terrorists

Letter To God

Ascension—9/11

Turning Point

Our New Heroes

Heaven And Hell 9/11

Three Weeks Later

9/11/02

Three Years Ago Today: 9/11/04

Four Years Later: 9/11/05

Seven Years Later 9/11/08

Nine Years Later—9/11

Ten Years Ago—9/11

Post Script

Epilogue

Senior Snowbird

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my husband Jerry for his love and support in all of my creative endeavors.

Preface

At an early age, I turned to my diary as a friend and confidante. In it I wrote all of my feelings, and thoughts, which later were expressed in poetry, mostly rhymed, as it just seemed to me at age 10, that all poetry had to have meter and rhymed verse. Much of my poetry today reflects that time in my life. Some things never change. I am still, deep in my heart, that same lonely child who turned to writing for comfort, escape and therapy.

My mother guided me on the road to show business when I was just 3 years old and had my first ballet lesson. She couldn’t live her dream of being a dancer, so I was going to live it for her. I studied tap, ballet, acrobatics, jazz, modern, acting, voice, and piano. My poems have rhythm like my dancing feet. Some of my verse could be songs if I found a melody for them. Some poems are for fun, some are from my heart, and some from deep within my soul.

My dad inspired me to write, as he was a frustrated factory worker who always wanted to be a journalist. Some of my personal essays are about my dad and mom, and some depict a time in my life as a Rockette, which was my mother’s dream come true for me. Many essays and poems reflect my later years as a wife, mother of three sons, caregiver to ailing parents, studio owner, grandmother of six and writer.

Dancing and writing have been an integral part of my life, thanks to parents who never fulfilled their dreams, but encouraged me to pursue my dreams.

Acknowledgements

The following people have my gratitude as they influenced my life in so many ways: my grandmother Rebecca Cohen, my parents Claire and Al Harvey, my Aunt Rosalie, and my Aunt Ruthie. For their love and support, I also want to thank my husband Jerry, my sons, Ronny, Lee, and Michael, my daughters-in-law, Donna, Jackie and Renee, and of course, my six grandchildren, who constantly light up my life—Ava, Jake, Veronica, Corey, Ethan, and Brett.

Kudos to Cary Sandler for all of his help in organizing the many pieces of the Oy puzzle, to William Gravert who taught me how to put the writing from my note books on the computer, to Helen Morris and my Taproot writing group for their weekly critiques of my essays, short stories and poems, and to Susan Bela, who found my writing worthy enough to give me my own column in the wonderful Great South Bay Magazine.

Enjoy!

SHORT

STORIES

58239.jpg

Full Circle

When you were 5 and I was 15 my parents rented a house on Fire Island next door to yours. I was your baby sitter that summer. You were such a cute little boy with big dark eyes and black curly hair. I used to take you for walks on the beach, and read to you each night until you fell asleep, your favorite story, The Little Prince.

When you were 15 and I was 25, I saw you just once on one of my weekends in Ocean Beach visiting a friend. You were walking through town with a group of your high school friends. I hardly recognized you because you had grown so tall. You were skinny then, and wearing jeans and a Fire Island T-shirt. Your hair was long and you wore an earring in your left ear. Your friends laughed when I reminded you who I was. I should never have said that I was your baby sitter, but I thought for sure that you would have remembered. Perhaps you did but were too embarrassed in front of your friends to admit it.

When you were 25 and I was 35, we met again, this time on the bus taking us from New York City, to the Fire Island Ferry. You were a rising young executive with a well known firm and I, a recently divorced struggling actress. We both had shares in houses in Ocean Bay Park. I didn’t recognize you at first. You were quite a different person from the rebellious kid in jeans. You wore a designer suit, executive tie, and carried a leather brief case along with your small duffel bag. Your hair, still black and curly, was cut short and you were now 6'4 with broad shoulders and narrow hips. You could have been a GQ model. And while I was thinking these things and wondering how to meet this handsome hunk boarding the small bus, our eyes met as you sat across from me and we simultaneously said—Aren’t you . . . ?"

It must have been those big dark eyes that I fell in love with when I was l5. They just got bigger and sexier. Age difference at this stage in our lives meant nothing and we were so happy together. We rented our own house for the summer and spent each weekend walking hand in hand on the beach, riding bikes, and having romantic dinners on our little deck with a view of the bay. After that summer you were afraid I would be attracted to an older, more sophisticated man. I put your mind at ease. I married you.

When you were 35 and I was 45, we had been happily married for ten years, but our age difference was beginning to bother me. I was afraid you would be attracted to a younger woman. I put my mind at ease. I had a face-lift.

When you were 45 and I was 55 you did have an affair, with a younger woman you met on the ferry the one weekend I couldn’t go to Fire Island that summer. It almost destroyed our marriage. I held on and accepted the fact that it was bound to happen sooner or later and hoped you just had to get it out of your system—which you did, and our true love withstood the storm until it blew over.

Now you are 75 and I am 85. We have come full circle my dear. Now you take me for walks, and read to me each night until I fall asleep, my favorite story, The Little Prince.

Another Friday Night

The music was blasting from three huge loud speakers. The darkened club lit only by bright neon bursts of hot pink and electric blue suspended from the high ceilings was vibrant with bodies of young hip dancers in a myriad mosaic of weird get-ups. This was the newest club to open in the Meat Packing District of Manhattan and it seemed as though every debutante, yuppie, model, and Greenwich Village artist was there.

The young man waited only ten minutes outside the club before being let in. Usually on a Friday night the wait was much longer, but there was a light rain falling and the October night felt colder than it really was because of the dampness. He checked his Burberry raincoat and Hermes umbrella, winked at the young attendant, and made his way to the bar. He took the same stool he had taken the last two Friday nights he had been to the club. The bar area was getting crowded as people left the dance floor for a drink. The bartender recognized the young man as he knew without asking what drink to bring. He placed the gin and tonic in front of him and the young man smiled and said thank you.

He took out a cigarette and lit it with his Tiffany gold lighter. Rather than make conversation with the bartender, the man turned away from the bar and surveyed the dance floor. Surely there would be a young beautiful woman for him tonight. He was lucky the last two times.

He took a sip of his drink, and took another puff of his cigarette. He spotted her. She was prettier than the one last week, but similar in type—long blonde hair, long shapely legs under a short tight black leather skirt. This one was a much better dancer. He watched as she undulated her body next to her partner. He liked the way she threw her head back making her yellow mane fly from side to side. He put out his cigarette and put his drink on the bar.

She’s going to be wonderful, he said to himself as he made his way to the dance floor. He knew his rugged good looks would get her attention sooner or later. He stood at the edge of the floor staring at the beautiful girl until they finally made eye contact. He motioned for her to come over. She smiled a sexy smile and continued to dance, moving her body in a more suggestive manner than before.

She’s playing hard to get, he thought. I love it! The man was used to getting what he wanted but enjoyed a grand game of cat and mouse before he caught his prey. He motioned to her once more and walked slowly and deliberately back to the bar, looking at her one more time and making eye contact once again.

The bartender gave the man another gin and tonic, which he drank rather quickly. As he was about to take the last sip, he felt a soft touch on his shoulder. He turned and looked into the eyes of the beautiful blonde from the dance floor. He pulled her close to him and kissed her hard on the mouth. She offered no resistance and kissed him back deliberately and passionately. Without a word he led her out a back door behind the dance floor to a dark alley strewn with over turned garbage cans and old tires.

He pinned her against the brick wall, lifted her short skirt and thrust himself between her willing loins. As he entered her, she let out a slight scream of ecstasy. The man then deftly took off his necktie and while still in the throws of passion, tightened it around the girl’s throat.

This one had been easy he thought, and very satisfying. He put his tie back around his neck, stepped over the limp figure and went back into the club to finish his drink.

Next Friday night, he would find another club in another trendy area of Manhattan. There were so many, and the girls who frequented them were so young, beautiful, and desperate for love.

A Quickie

She: Hi, are you there? It’s 1:00 am. I can’t sleep so I got on the computer.

He: Hi, I can’t sleep either. I’ve been up thinking of you.

She: I’ve been thinking of you too, but I can’t sleep because my husband is snoring.

He: I don’t snore.

She: How will I ever know that?

He: Meet me at the Golden Touch Motel in a half an hour, and I’ll show you that I don’t snore. I’ll show you a lot more too.

She: That sounds exciting! You have a date. How will I know you?

He: I’ll be in the lobby wearing a cowboy hat.

She: I’ll be in a red jacket.

He: I can’t believe it. Our first date after two weeks on the internet. I’m excited too.

She: Cya soon.

She turns off the computer and tip-toes back into her bedroom. Her husband is still snoring. She takes off her nightgown and puts on her sexiest lingerie, her jeans, white t-shirt, red jacket, and sneakers.

Oh my God, I haven’t been this excited since my first blind date in high school, she thinks to herself. I wonder what he looks like. He sounds so nice. I hope he isn’t disappointed in me.

Quietly making her way out of the house, she gets into her car and drives twenty minutes to the Golden Touch Motel.

As she pulls up to the office, she sees a man with a cowboy hat sitting near the large picture window. He has a huge beer belly, a gray pony tail, and a missing front tooth. Not at all the way he described himself!

She puts the car in reverse and in ten minutes flat, is back in her house. Quickly, she undresses, climbs into bed, and snuggles next to her still snoring husband.

The Audition

A five, six, seven, eight. Jump kick, jump kick, step ball change, step kick—and get those kicks eye high! The choreographer shouted at the young dancers and scrutinized them briefly before announcing the next group. O.K., next group of twenty, same combination. Smile and get those kicks to eye level.

Sally was in the next group. This was the moment she had waited for since her first dance lesson ten years ago. She was finally the right height and right age to try out for the world famous Rockettes. Her teacher had told her about the audition and her mother insisted she travel to New York from her small hometown in New Jersey. Over 400 girls were there from all over the United States. Only five girls were needed as replacements.

Why am I here? Sally thought to herself. All those dancers are so good, I don’t stand a chance. I’m probably one the youngest too. By the time Sally was finished thinking the negative thoughts, the choreographer yelled, Hey, girl in red leotard, are you auditioning or not?

The snakes in her stomach started writhing as she made her way to the line-up of girls. She was in the big rehearsal hall seven stories above the Great Stage. It was a huge room with old wooden floors, a long mirror across one wall, a baby grand in the corner and several wooden benches along the opposite wall of the mirrors. As each group auditioned facing the mirrors, all the other girls were sitting on the benches, watching and silently praying they would be chosen.

She was getting severe stomach pains now and was starting to perspire.

Are you sick young lady? the choreographer asked.

Oh no sir, I’m fine, Sally said forcing a smile.

OK then, music please, same combination—a 5, 6, 7, 8. The music began, but Sally’s feet didn’t. They were glued to the floor and her head was spinning toward the ceiling. The room was going around and around, faster and faster.

She remembered screaming Oh, no! and the next thing she remembered was looking up at her mother’s face. Where am I? What’s happened?

You’re going to be fine dear, her mother said as she wiped Sally’s forehead. You fainted in the rehearsal hall and they brought you here to one of the dressing rooms. You really had us all worried.

Oh Mom, I’m so ashamed, Sally said as she started to cry, I’ve ruined my one chance to audition this year. I know how much this meant to you Mom, I’m sorry.

Before Mrs. Henderson had a chance to reply, Mr. Markert, the founder of the famous dance line walked into the room. He was a man in his early 60s, slight of build, balding with a trim waxed mustache, and a warm friendly smile.

Did you think you were auditioning for the dying swan in Swan Lake my dear? He was obviously trying to make Sally feel better but she didn’t find his remark amusing.

I think it was a combination of nerves and not eating all day. I hope I didn’t ruin the rest of the audition.

No, you didn’t. As a matter of fact, we almost have our line-up. We’re just short one girl. Sally’s heart began to race. She and her mother looked at each other, then to Mr. Markert. If you can get yourself together, have a bite to eat in our cafeteria so you don’t faint again, I’ll audition you myself in the small rehearsal hall on the 6th floor in one-half hour. Sally was ecstatic.

Before leaving the dressing room, Sally touched a few of the sequined costumes hanging on the rack. She looked at the dressing tables filled with make-up, lotions and eye lash glue. Oh, dear God, I want to be sitting in one of these places, wearing one of these costumes