Last week I met one of the two premier banjo players in the world. Actually, Larry and I had dinner with him, his wife and friends. That was impressive enough, but when I heard that he had taught Steve Martin to play the banjo, that really impressed me!

Most of my friends know (because I tell them often) that I was the one who discovered Steve Martin in the early 1970s. I was watching the Johnny Carson show one night and this very funny young comedian was on. His routine was making balloon animals without blowing up the balloons and I found this hysterical! When I mentioned this to my friends in the days to follow, I found that I was the only one who had seen him, and so, at least among my friends, I consider that I was the one to discover Steve.

It was not too much later, of course, that everyone knew about this talented and very funny performer. He hit it big on Saturday Night Live and I, with millions of others watched his wild and crazy routine, his arrow through the head, his excuuuuuuse me. He did things like hold a piece of fabric covering his legs, and then, pulling up one leg as he raised the fabric, it looked like his leg had disappeared. I don't know if it was the expression on his face that got to me, or the expression in his voice, or the fact that I myself have a very silly streak (this is what my son Jamie said he would remember most about me!), but I just was hysterical laughing every time I watched Steve Martin, and I miss him now that he has gone on to more erudite offerings. Of course, those erudite offerings show other sides of this very talented man, but I miss the wild and crazy guy that he brought to life when he first hit the scene.

In any event , the banjo player with whom we had dinner, who, by the way, was absolutely delightful to be with, (as was his wife), was going on tour the next day to Europe. I casually mentioned that I would appreciate it if, the next time he saw Steve Martin, he told him about how I had been the one to discover him. I just think he should know.

Curly hair.
Curly hair on a baby is adorable.
Curly hair on a teenager from the perspective of the teenager, not so adorable.
Curly hair on a 59 year old not so bad.
But, it takes product. Just the right product. And just the right scrunching technique.
And just the right amount of humidity in the air.
And the frizz needs to be controlled.
If you are a woman with curly hair, you understand.
You remember ironing it.
You remember blowing it out.
You remember giant rollers.
Some of you even remember rolling it on beer cans.
You remember catching it up in a tiny little ponytail with a very long scarf.
You remember dippity-do.
You remember lots of dippity-do.
You remember thinking I wish my hair would swing.
And at some point your grown son says, Mom, I like your hair curly.
I knew I liked my curly hair.

Each morning, for the last 30 years that we have lived in our house, I wake up to see...the outrageously messy top of Larry's dresser. Each day, it seems, the many piles get closer to the ceiling. Believe me, I have tried everything to keep that sucker cleaned up (the dresser, not Larry). I have tried a three-size basket system; I have tried the full arm sweep junk to the floor technique; I have tried guilt-provoking crying; I have tried the very difficult to listen to nagging technique. Nothing works. I have questioned myself as to why nothing works, and I have come up with a combination of: Larry is an incurable clutterer and I am a wuss.

Now, as those of you who know Larry know, he is an exceptionally fine person and he is an exceptionally clean person when it comes to his own personal hygiene. He is also non-sexist in his willingness to do chores around the house (he has been doing the laundry without complaint for the past 15 years) and he is happy to do any household chore without complaining that I don't do more. He also loves to cook, and is great at fixing the morasses in which I often find myself when I do the cooking.

All that having been said, I still have to look at that dresser every morning, and I still have to withstand berating when I try to throw something out. It is beyond my comprehension why a person who was born in 1946 hoards things as if he had lived during the depression. Every pair of shoes, every pair of pants, every shirt from the 1970s still hangs in a closet which is too small to accomodate even the wardrobe that he actually wears. He gets a new pair of winter boots, but does he throw out the old ones? Of course not, he will wear them when he does work in the garden. He gets two new blazers that he looks fantastic in. Does he throw out the ones that he hasn't worn for ten years? Of course not, they may come back into style someday, and he may lose the 30 pounds that would make them fit again. He has 35 plaid flannel shirts that he wears to work but cannot resist a sale and buys 35 more without throwing out the old ones. And, by the way, I HATE plaid flannel shirts.

Our Florida apartment is a different story. It is beautifully clutter free. From the beginning, I have insisted on a clutter free environment in the Florida apartment and I have made it happen. I have been strict; I have been strong. I am not a wuss in Florida. I am the woman I was always meant to be. Of course, no mail gets delivered to Florida, so that helps. And we don't do bills there, so that helps. But even so, there is not a piece of clutter to be found. No one would dare.

On December 1st I will turn 60.
That is a biggie. No way around it. All the platitudes come to mind: 60 is the new 40; All my friends are turning 60 at the same time, so it's not so bad; it's better than the alternative. I can get some really good senior discounts. That's all true. And yet...
Just the sound of it. 60. I will be 60 years old. I am the same age as Israel, except that when it is said in terms of Israel, it seems so young; Israel is such a new country. When it is said in terms of a person, it is getting up there. And time goes so quickly now, so before I know it, I will be writing a blog about turning 70. 70.
And then there are the children. One 'child' just turned 29, the other 'child' just turned 31. omg.
Of course, one very important factor is how healthy one feels. That is major. So far so good. I am grateful for that.
I am grateful for a lot, actually.
Okay. That is what I am going to do. I am going to go the grateful route. I am grateful for my family. I am grateful for my friends. I am grateful for my health. I am grateful for sunshine and laughter and singing and looking at the ocean.
I am grateful for turning 60. 60! This is great!