Everyone loves my mom, especially me. You see she is absolutely the silliest person I know, making any normal situation crazy with her way out sense of humor. When I was in high school, all my friends wanted to hang out at my house because I had the coolest mom. Nothing has changed. She is still cool and bouncing off the wall with antics like you wouldn’t believe! It’s overwhelming to even think of how to write this article concisely with the stuff she has done over the years.

Let’s start with serious situations that most people would never find funny, like church. Mom would begin laughing at the littlest things: Perhaps a bee flying amidst the pews, a price tag left on someone’s hat, and the worst… the downed zipper on a man’s pants. That would throw her into a tizzy that would last all day and into next week! And if mom pulled a prank on my dad that he did not think was humorous, that made her even giddier. Oh, and the things Mom made Dad do. God rest his soul. He was a saint.

I recall a cat funeral my mom had for her friend Pat whose beloved feline died suddenly. Mom called all the neighbors and asked them to wear black and go to Pat’s house that night where Mom stationed Dad on the front porch with a record player, on slow speed, playing “What’s new Pussycat?” A ceramic cat was in a shoebox, draped like a coffin on the fireplace hearth, while mom dressed another friend like a priest to do the eulogy. All this was to bring a smile to Pat and let her know how much she was loved. It worked.

I bet none of you have a mom who makes get-well condom arrangements when her friends are in the hospital. My mom blows up colored condoms like balloons and attaches them on sticks into planters with ribbons and bows. Then she delivers them to those she treasures most when they are sick. Aren’t you glad you are not one of her friends? I was never sure which Mom loved more; making the arrangements or going to the drugstore and asking for brightly colored, non-lubricated condoms! The kid who worked the register at CVS must have thought my parents had the most prolific sex life.

Mom never let a birthday go by without a silly prank. No toilet paper yard wrapping for her. That was too normal. She once filled a friend’s mailbox with popcorn. She sewed up the fly on dad’s boxers on one of his birthdays. She short-sheeted a friend’s bed. And one of her top-ten best happened when she was house-sitting for the next-door neighbors. Mom hung their underwear on a tree in their front yard while they were on vacation. It was a week’s worth of laughs as cars slowed down to see the goods neatly displayed on the huge magnolia.

The things my mom did to my boyfriends over the years would call for a book all by themselves. I knew I was living dangerously when I first brought Chuck, my husband to-be, to my parent’s house for dinner. Mom dressed in a flesh-colored tee shirt with big breasts painted on it, fishnet stockings, my dad’s jock strap and four inch platform shoes from the ’70s as she held a long stemmed cigarette holder in her mouth. After plying my dad with a few drinks, she made him put on a black shaggy wig, his Marlon Brando tee shirt and funky boxer shorts. The table was decorated in Clemson colors, because she knew Chuck was a die-hard Gamecock fan, and the napkin rings were made from the gray paper roll that is left when the toilet paper is all gone. It was a night to remember, that’s for sure. I guess it was a great way to break Chuck into the family, and the rest of the night beat anything in the movie, Meet the Parents. Luckily, he still married me.

Another memorable but hilarious moment in our family history, thanks to Mom, was the day my birth father and his new wife came to South Carolina to visit me and reunite with Mom for the first time in 23 years. Well, the only way to handle a stressful event like this was to bring laughter into it of course, so Mom wore one of my old May Day, Southern Belle type dresses, while she costumed Dad in a rebel hat with a rebel flag, direct from South of the Border in Dillon. The icing on the cake was the sign mom placed in the front yard, “Yankees, go home!” What could have been one of the worst nights of my life, turned into one of the greatest nights of my life because of Mom’s creative vision for “the extraordinary” to break the tension.

One of Mom’s most unusual, and almost troubling, displays of humor came at her mother’s funeral. As we all stood crying over my grandmother’s open casket, Mom leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Don’t forget to give back those earrings I let you borrow for this wake!” Mom had added some of her own jewelry to make my grandmother look better, also knowing that Nana never went anywhere without her ear-bobs! My sister and I knew Mom said it to make us laugh, not to be disrespectful in any way. Nana would have loved it most, as no one appreciated Mom’s outlandishness more.

Last year at my nephew’s 6th grade graduation, he begged me to not let my mom do anything crazy that would embarrass him in front of his friends. It made me snicker to recall how I was once embarrassed by my mom’s mischievous spirit, but so proud of it today. Who knows, at 78 maybe that’s what has kept Mom so young at heart. Ask her what she does for a living, and she’ll tell you she is a “Call Girl” for Stein Mart. “When they call, I go to work.” Thanks Mom, no one exemplifies “Live, Love, and Laugh” better than you. You’ve taught all who love you that even in our most dismal moments, finding something to giggle about will always lighten the load.

As far back as I can remember, I always loved to write, from making homemade Mother’s Day cards that my mom adored, to writing poems and limericks. I knew I was destined to work for Hallmark someday or at the least write for a living. My family, however, was sure I would be an actress or performer of some type, as I used to love to recite and act out commercials that I had memorized. Just give me a stage!

Of course I had many a diary over the years, and I recall this entry that I scribbled one night while under the covers of my bed: “Dear Diary, I would love to be a writer someday or perform on Broadway.” I was only ten years old, but I knew, even then, what my passions were. Writing, just like public speaking and performing came so naturally to me.

When I was four, my Aunt Jean and her daughter, Elaine, who was four months younger than me, came to live with us in my grandparent’s two-bedroom apartment. Yes, six of us, under one small roof: My mom and me, Aunt Jean and Elaine, Trixie the dog, and my wonderfully benevolent Nana and Pa Pa who took their daughters back into their home after they left bad marriages.

Elaine was a very serious child, whereas I was rather silly and very out-going. Occasionally, we would color or cut out paper-dolls together, but usually Elaine was found sitting in a chair reading a book. She could do it all day long. As for me, I chose to write a book. My first attempt was about the little kitten I wanted to adopt from a neighbor’s litter, but my mom said no because there were already too many mouths to feed in this small apartment. It was my first broken heart, so I wrote a little book about it using art paper I brought home from kindergarten, and I found that my heart did not hurt as bad after I spilled my guts amidst the folded pages: My first cathartic experience.

I also loved to write and design menus to alert my grandfather what was coming up for dinner that night. “Tuna Casserole or Salmon Croquettes? Would you like to take a guess?” That was just one of my many poetic menu headings. Okay, give me credit, I was five years old, and Pa Pa thought I was brilliant!

Catholic School opened up doors for me as each class was small and intimate. Sister Maureen was my third grade teacher, and she said that I had a “real gift.” She was the first person outside of family who encouraged my writing ability. One day she asked me to stand up and read my composition entitled “Divorced Mom,” for which I got an A, the only one in the class. You see this was a topic that really hit home for me, as Elaine and I were the only two kids in the entire school who had divorced parents.

This was an oddity back in the fifties, not to mention among good Catholic families. Worst of all, since they were divorced, our moms could not receive Communion. I was so afraid that my mom would die and go to hell because of the divorce, which I spelled out in the essay that I tried to read aloud to the class without crying. I also detailed the hurt of never knowing my birth father, comparing my no-show dad to Elaine’s ever-present father who appeared every weekend bearing gifts.

A month later, my mom said we needed to sit down and talk. Sister Maureen had called and told her about the paper. I knew she wasn’t going to be happy about me spilling the beans about the divorce, so I braced myself for the worst. Instead she was so proud that I got an A and Sister assured her that my gift of writing was God-given.

However, it was what my mom went onto say afterwards which mattered most to me over the years. This was the first time she told me anything about the man who was my father. I never wanted to ask her about him. I knew it was a sore subject. She was eighteen when they married, had me eleven months later, and he left us when I was just nine-months old. She hated him, which was obvious by the photos in my baby-book. One photo showed a man holding me but his head was cut off, and another of a man bending over my crib, also headless. I knew nothing about him except that this headless sperm donor was my father

This was the time my mother chose to tell me about something I grew to treasure. “You know, Diane, your father was an excellent writer, and there’s no doubt that you get this talent from him because I can’t write a lick! He used to write me poems and love letters all the time”. And then she showed me what he wrote in her high school annual. I’ll never forget that moment, as I realized that some part of me was just like him, the man I fantasized about and longed to meet, the man I wished had loved me enough to stick around for a while, or to at least visit every now and then. For the first time in my life, my father became real to me. At the same time, I finally knew that my mom and my birth father did love each other at some point, and it made me happy to know that I wasn’t a mistake. Best of all, my mom, putting all hatred for him aside, loved me enough to finally say something positive about the man who not only gave his sperm to give me life, but also gave his genes which would mold me into the person I was to become.

College found me majoring in Journalism for the first two years, switching to English with an emphasis on Creative writing and Speech. Plus, I became the university’s student spokesperson to the local media. I also worked on the newspaper staff and yearbook, chaired the entertainment committee and was a cheerleader for four years, relishing the limelight, which all led to my career as a radio and TV talk show host/producer. Keep in mind that very few women were in the media at this point. I was a forerunner, a pacesetter so to speak and being a good writer helped me every step of the way.

When I finally met my long haired, earring wearing, Harley-riding birth father, Howard Michaels, for the very first time, I came to realize the strength of genetics. My father had been one of the dancers on American Bandstand, worked for a local newspaper in Philadelphia and was once a scriptwriter and radio personality. He had been a singer and dancer with a traveling troupe, “The Latin Aires,” and was the manager of the Soul Survivors whose famous record from the sixties, “Expressway to Your Heart,” is still played today on radio stations across the nation.

Sadly, Howard died six years after I met him from a massive heart attack while dancing at a nightclub he owned in Philadelphia called “Nowhere,” but I’ll always be grateful that my mom and step-father, who legally adopted me when I was ten, supported me in this decision to find my birth father and to meet him after all these years. Not only did I gain a new sister, brother and really cool step-mother, but I also learned that even though I never lived with this man and never knew him as a kid growing up, I shared much of the same talents and passions for life that he did. He loved to perform; he was a very good writer and just like me, was the “director of everything” as my husband likes to say. The rest of my good nature and warped sense of humor comes from my beautiful mother who gave me her heart and soul from the day I was born and continues today brightening my life. Mom knows what to say at all the right times, just as she did many moons ago when my love of writing needed nurturing, even though it meant giving credit to a man who lied to her and cheated on her, and left us both without offering one cent as he walked out the door.

Throughout the years, I have had many jobs that involved creative writing. I’ve written documentaries, television commercials, several musical revues, even two songs that made it to the radio and tons of articles like this one. Each time, writing brings me joy, like nothing else. It’s a passion that fulfills me, and one that I must never take for granted because this talent came genetically from a man I hardly knew. What a gift!

So, I signed up for a course at Horry Georgetown Technical College where I shared the experience with twelve other lost souls, some even more lost in space than me, which sadly, made me feel good.

Fast forward ten years, when I was finally feeling confident in my basic computer skills. Chuck decided we need to upgrade our PCs to Macs so that we could edit TV commercials and other necessary operations for our video production company. It was like going back to kindergarten all over again, and, just like kindergarten where I was forced to leave my mommy, I cried. I soon felt I was the poster child of the tacky saying, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” But, something came over me, and this dog was doggone determined to tackle the challenge head on. I grabbed my Dummies book and tried to figure out how to operate this new computer. Nothing was working right. Little did I know that this book was only for PC users and wasn’t even closely related to the Mac. Talk about being a dummy!

Thank goodness Chuck has the patience of Job, but when he said, “Honey, I already told you how to do that last week,” it made me so upset because I’m the kind of person who has to do things over and over again before it sticks! He should know that by now – we’ve been together for 28 years.

“Why not use the shortcut,” he would say. Or “How come you never close the programs?”

Heck! The truth is, I simply forgot how to do it, because I did not do it often enough!

Today I am still no wizard on the Mac, but I get by. I’ve actually gotten quite proficient booking our vacations on line for the past fifteen years, including airlines, hotels and car rentals, and I love researching the destinations and sifting through what others say about the area. No one can ever call me a “cyber-space cadet.” I’ve mastered the internet on all fronts.

As for writing articles, I was so excited when I learned to edit, cut and paste, and realized how much money I would save e-mailing our annual Christmas poem to all our friends and family. But, speaking of e-mail, it certainly can be a time-saver, but as a member of the media I get bogged down with over two hundred e-mails a day or more: every local press release, every city council agenda, traffic accidents – you name it, I get it, which is why I want to strangle the folks who send me jokes, videos to watch, political rubbish, advertisements and, even worse, messages to forward that clog up others people’s computers.

That is also why I don’t Facebook! I can e-mail anyone I want to, and they can easily contact me. If I want to social network, I will do it in person. And needless to say, if I did Facebook, I would never be able to tell anyone that they could not be my “friend.” That would be painful. Besides, all this Facebook and Twitter stuff reminds me of the many years I kept a diary, documenting every move I made that day as I hovered under the covers of my bed at night. And who should care what my favorite book is, or where I am going this weekend. It’s actually scary to let everyone in on all of that nonsense, don’t you think? What amazes me most is that Chuck, who suggested I don’t get into Facebook because, as he said, “Everyone knows you from TV, and you’ll certainly attract every kook in town,” has gotten into Facebook himself. Of course I razz him about it, as he is surely the least social of the two of us. Go figure!

Last year, just when I thought I was safe from tackling any tougher computer challenges, I agreed to do a radio show that had to be completely produced by way of computer. Certainly not like the old days of spinning records when I did radio thirty-eight years ago! What if I could not master it? I just knew that I couldn’t let my technical “disabilities” take over, when I knew I would love doing it once I learned how. I had to empower myself to think about how far I had come in the past twenty years, and before I knew it, I was setting microphone levels, digitizing the audio, editing the tracts and taking pride in not letting fear overcome me, thanks to Chuck, my technical guru and guardian angel. And, in gratitude, I promised I would never make fun of him doing Facebook again.

Just last week, I had someone call me about being a guest speaker, at a convention in Columbia, and they knew so much about me, it was frightening. When I asked them who fed them all this information, they told me that they had “Googled” me. So after I got off the phone, I curiously Googled myself (sounds sinful, doesn’t it?), and I was totally blown away to find articles I had written, publicity I received in the newspaper and even some of my past TV interviews on line as a result of the interviewees posting them. There is more than anyone would want to know, or should know, about anyone on the internet. Shockingly, I even found a funny clip of myself on You Tube when my wedding dress fell off during the curtain call of Hello Dolly a few years ago, showing off my black bloomers to God and everyone! Who would submit something like that? Isn’t anything sacred anymore?

So, what comes perfectly natural to some of you mastering the technical world with ease, has been an uphill battle on roller blades for me. But let’s face it, when you stop learning, you get stale, and just like bread, when it gets stale it starts to MOLD, and there is one thing I know for sure, I never looked good in BLUE.

Black. That’s what I predominately see when I look into my closet. I swear that I will not bring home another piece of black clothing, but somehow, like trying to give up carbs, I weaken in a skinny minute and the black hole continues to grow.

What happened to my early days of Safari and Hawaiian prints? Who cares that they made me look bigger, at least I looked happy! And by the way, I look great in those brownish colors, and even better in purple, turquoise, and red. When did my taste change from sassy to drab, and how did I get so monotone? Am I depressed and don’t know it? Maybe it’s menopause! Probably the only reason I even have any color at all amongst my wardrobe is that black tops do not always match black bottoms. There’s nothing worse!

I think it all started with Chico’s. Yes, that’s where I put the blame! Those black stretch traveler pants that never wrinkle, and always fit because they grow with me, are the ultimate. Whether I am up twenty pounds or down twenty, those pants will lie to me like an old friend, and tell me that it’s okay to eat another piece of bread pudding. Then I needed fifteen matching black jackets and vests that coordinate with colored shells for going out in style and to make the outfit “pop!” Black belts and black handbags are a must to finish off “the look.” Sophisticated and classy, yes, but just plain boooooorrrrring! But I guess the other reason I love black is that it is so forgiving. No matter how overweight anyone is, they always look more slender in black, and I am no exception.

As for white, I have never liked wearing white, unless it is a black and white combination. White tops look dreadful on me with my dark complexion. Besides, I never liked seeing the thick five-hooker bra through my blouse. I guess if I had mini boobies, I would see it differently. Heck, I did not even get married in white, but rather ivory, because I looked like death warmed over in every pure white wedding dress that I tried on. Who cares whether it represented virginity? Since I wasn’t a virgin, it did not matter. My choice was black or purple, but my mom begged me not to. As usual, she was right!

Last week, I counted the number of black jeans I have hidden in various drawers in my house, and the number shocked even me…thirteen! Some of them are twenty years old, but they never look sloppy like blue jeans do. Why do I hide them you ask? Well, I don’t want my husband to see that I have sizes 8 to size 14 that I fit into at one time or another, and refuse to part with, just in case I grow or shrink whichever the case may be. You know, Semper Parati, the old boy scout motto of always being prepared. I have considered that if I discarded the larger ones, I would not be tempted to expand my horizons (my butt and thighs) but rather eat cautiously to remain svelte and slender. Been there done that. This psychology doesn’t seem to work for me.

As for shoes, I have thirty-one pair, counting winter and summer, flats and heels, and twenty are…you guessed it…BLACK! So why is that? It’s not that my foot looks more petite wearing black. Frankly, my feet are the only part of my anatomy that never seems to grow. I’m a perfect eight and a half, and have been since high school. But I must admit that when I am wearing black pants I like the continuity that black shoes make – a more streamlined effect. If I wear a red top with black slacks, I will still wear black shoes, instead of red. Add it all up and you get an excessive amount of black shoes.

Now for all of you who are still with me and have not stopped reading because you think I am slightly disturbed, here is a little money saving hint for you. I call it “black magic,” as I keep a black magic marker in my shoe closet, so that every time I get a scuff, I can touch it up with a quick rub of the marker. Even my summer sandals from last year received a magical makeover so that they can make it through one more season of hot sand and asphalt. Top them off with a little polish to boot, if you’ll excuse the pun, and they are almost brand new.

And as you would probably imagine, my bathing suits are always black “miracle” suits. A few years ago, I did break down and bought a brown one but then it did not match all my black cover-ups and black flip- flops, so I rarely wore it. In order to enliven my beach ensemble, I have a very floral beach bag, red sunglasses and silver studded black visor.

Enough already! A fashion Goddess, I’m not, and I know it, and my obsession with black is surely out of control. But the first step to conquering any problem is to admit it before God and the rest of the world. So, if you see me out and about, and I’m wearing something other than black, pleeeease cheer me on.

I need all the encouragement I can get.

It was hot, very hot, but nothing would have pulled us away from the sight unfolding before our eyes. This was a gift, one of those magical moments in time that everyone would love to witness, but never have a chance to see.

We were in Aruba on vacation a few years ago and, just after we arrived, we threw on our swimsuits and headed to the beautiful white sandy beach. Strangely, there were fenced-in areas wrapped in orange tape, protecting multiple turtle nests, up and down the shore as far as we could see. With any luck, we might get to witness a turtle hatching during our tropical vacation.

Everywhere we went residents were abuzz about the successful work being done by various groups of volunteers who encourage and protect beloved sea turtles. A total of sixty-five nests proved that keeping the beach free of debris, and by removing umbrellas, boats and jet skis at night, combined with community and tourist education, made for a successful turtle nesting season.

Dedicated volunteers patrol the beach early each morning from March through September, hoping to see a path where a turtle dragged herself up on the shore, dug a twenty inch deep hole, laid about a hundred and twenty golf ball size eggs before mounding the sand over her nest and heading back to sea. You can bet this is where the term, “fertile turtle” comes from!

Leatherbacks, Hawksbill and Green turtles all make their home in the tranquil waters of this south Caribbean island, but, like turtles everywhere, face environmental challenges due to waterfront development. Commercial lighting from the resorts presents one of the worst obstacles, disorienting the turtle and sometimes causing a false crawl, meaning she leaves the scene without laying eggs. The babies, who are directed by the moonlight reflecting off the ocean, get confused by the lighting versus the moonlight, and head in the wrong direction, hence the bumper sticker, “Sea Turtles Dig the Dark.”

For those of you who don’t know, sea turtles are amazing creatures. Females return to their own birth place, after traveling thousands of miles for the first thirty years of life, just to give birth in the same place they were born. How’s that for a built-in GPS? The eggs hatch six to seven weeks later, but very few of the hatchlings actually live to maturity due to hungry birds and other predators. It is deplorable that only one in 10,000 sea turtles ever make it to twelve years of age. That is why communities all over the world have worked diligently to assist in protecting the habitat of the sea turtle, including Myrtle Beach where our state parks have, in recent years, had a multitude of nests. However, more work needs to be done to help this endangered species. As a matter of fact, today, right here in Myrtle Beach, as I am writing this article, a dead sea turtle washed ashore caught in a crab trap.

As a scuba diver, I have had some of the most beautiful turtle encounters. In St Croix one swam right into my wide spread arms as if he was accepting a hug. In Bora Bora a very young turtle ate vegetation out of my hand that was slipped to me by the dive master. Hawaii’s friendly critters wanted to follow our dive tour as if they were one of us, and a turtle in St. John swam along with me for almost a half hour as if I was his mama. I never seem to lose my excitement for them.

As a kid, I had several little green turtles that were housed in little plastic bowls with attached palm trees. I once had a turtle named Forest that I found in a lake when he was no bigger than the tip of my pinky, and seven years later I kept him in the yard in an old bathtub. Even now, I feed thirty-four of them nightly from a deck over looking the lake behind my house.

But this experience in Aruba was like no other, because amidst the hot sand and scorching rays of the tropical sun, a turtle nest was rumbling loose from its mound. All the little hatchlings were scrambling to the surface and brushing the scratchy particles of sand from their little faces. Lifeguards alerted volunteers, and work began placing barricades to keep the little fellas on the right path to the shoreline.

Forty-seven of them surfaced through the white, silky granules as if to say, “Hey, where am I?” and “Who are you people hanging over us?” It took three hours for them to slowly parade, in all their glory, to the salty water. Yet, the work of the volunteers had just begun, for now they had to dig deep and check for the survivors who may not have been strong enough to make their way through the mound. In addition, they had to count all the eggs and record the numbers who did not survive.

Eight runts, as the young weaklings are called, were given minor assistance with a man-made trench in the sand to the ocean. However, as the volunteers explained to us, they cannot give too much help to the little turtles because it is important to build up strength in those tiny legs before they hit the water so that they can withstand the tough currents and rough waves ahead.

My husband and I stood at the scene with about thirty other tourists representing many different countries, which was obvious from the unfamiliar chatter around us. Everyone was glued to what was happening, skipping lunch and casting aside all plans made for that day.

One at a time, the tiny runts scooted towards the water and like clockwork the surf knocked them back up on the shore. This went on for over an hour and, no, I wasn’t the only one trying to hide my tears at this agony of defeat, because no matter where we live in this great big world, all of us, at one time or another, have been on the bottom, striving to beat the odds to come out on top. The struggle was personal and too familiar for all of us.

Finally, each determined turtle made his way successfully into the ocean. The entire episode was exhilarating. But there’s one precious thing I learned from this beautiful experience that will stay in my heart as long as I live – although the onlookers were multi-lingual, their “Cheers and Tears” were the SAME language as mine.

As we left the scene to go about our respective evening plans, we were all forever changed by these underdogs, the most endangered of THIS endangered species.

I love dressing up but it’s not the kind of dressing up that you might think. I’m not into the fancy, long, name-brand dresses, panty-hose (yuck) and high-heeled pumps with fancy poofed-up hair looking like Barbie gone mad.

I prefer costumes that, once put upon my body, completely turn me into someone else. Yes, friends, we call it THEATER! You can rehearse for six weeks, but you never really turn into the character until you are in full costume and makeup, which is why I salute costume mistresses everywhere.

It’s magical, really.

But, I have a history of wardrobe malfunctions starting long before Janet Jackson made the terminology “cool.” It never fails that, at least one night, during the three-week run of a show I am going to have some incredibly embarrassing moment on stage.

One of the most “unveiling times” I had was playing Dolly Levi in Hello Dolly, where, at the end of the show, I had 45 seconds off stage to go from Dolly’s typical flamboyant hat, long dress and high-buttoned shoes into her wedding dress. The costume designer made it into two pieces for easy access with the bottom part velcroed at the waist. Well, wouldn’t you know, as I entered the stage and spun around, the bottom of the dress twirled to the floor as if it was planned. Thank goodness I had a body suit on that covered my you-know-what! Okay, it was black, but still…!

In Annie Get Your Gun, as Annie, I lifted my gun to take a shot and the metal shaft on the rifle got caught in my right pigtail. So I never put the gun down, but rather finished the scene with the gun held up to my face. Buffalo Bill did not know what was going on; he only knew that this was being played out differently than rehearsal.

One night, during the performance of Mame, I was sitting on a big cutout of a moon singing the song, “The Man in the Moon is a Lady.” Of course, it is a very funny scene where Mame actually falls off the moon at the end of the number. All went well, except for the evening that my long, white, silky costume got stuck on the bottom point of the moon and, when I fell to the floor as planned, so did the moon, which was unplanned. It came down with a bang, hit me on my upper lip and blood came shooting out like a geyser. The audience roared because the scene was so funny! They thought it was meant to happen and figured the blood was the fake theatrical type. But as I continued the scene, with blood dripping from my lip onto my white costume, with no tissue in sight, as my nephew sang, “You’re My Best Girl” with fear on his face, it was one of those moments when you know the whole show could have gone to pot right there. But, we both held hands tighter than usual and got through it. This was also a scene where I was suppose to cry because I was just fired from my job, and my nephew tenderly sings how much he loves his Auntie Mame. That night I was able to cry better than ever because I was really hurt. Method acting!

It is most important when you are doing theater to make sure that during the dress rehearsal you have done everything you will do during the performance. Every single action is important. As Lola in Damn Yankees, I never wore my bright red lipstick until opening night because I was too busy to buy it. Well, what we all forgot was how many times I had to kiss Joe, the young baseball player I was trying to seduce at the devil’s request. It wasn’t until the scene after I kissed him for the first time that he and I realized he couldn’t wipe off the twelve-hour, stay-on lipstick. Cold cream wouldn’t budge it. Scene after scene, right until the end of the show, this macho baseball hero appeared with bright red lips. The next day I hit the CVS for the good, old-fashioned, traditional lip color.

During performances, sometimes you have very little time to use the bathroom, and the older I get, well…you know, I have to use it more often. So, I dashed into the ladies room to tinkle while Oklahoma was in progress, and once I pulled down my Ado Annie ruffled bloomers, I forgot that I had a body suit on and peed right through the snapped crotch. Well, after a number of expletives, I headed for the dressing room, grabbed the hair dryer and started to blow dry myself before going back on stage. Boy, those snaps can get hot!

One of my favorite shows ever is I Do I Do!, where I played opposite my real life husband, Chuck. There were only two of us in the entire show, and it tells the story of a couple from the time they get married until they move into a retirement home. In one scene I go into labor and start screaming because the baby is coming. However, one night I started screaming a lot earlier in the dialogue than usual, and Chuck couldn’t figure out what was going on. But, you see, I was wearing what is called a baby apron tied around my waist under my dress to look nine months pregnant, when all of a sudden, the snaps in the crotch of my body suit unsnapped. As the elastic began to rise, so did the baby apron, putting the baby right under my boobs instead of dropping down below. I had no choice but to lie on the bed and scream a lot sooner than planned. Of course, I couldn’t spread my legs like we had rehearsed because there was nothing left down there to cover me, so there I was, rolled over in a fetal position, pretending to be in labor while he ran around the room trying to pack the suitcase to take me to the hospital.

When it comes to dressing up, this is the kind I like to do most. Not that I don’t like being me, but it is so much fun to get to be someone else for a few weeks and get to do things and say things that I would never do as me!

And, the foibles of live theater cannot be ignored, and the improvisation that comes from the experience is priceless, offering a lifetime of memories and life-long friendships.

I was thirteen years old when the world around me seemed to crumble. My Dad had been transferred from Newark, New Jersey, where we were all born and had lived all of our lives, to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. How could I ever live without my grandparents who helped to raise me, without my friends and all the familiar places I had grown to love? Yeah, I know what you are thinking…I was lucky to leave Newark! Actually, I was, but at the time it was terribly traumatic.

Moving away anytime is an awkward adjustment for anyone, but when you are in high school, it is really the pits! I left Newark in the middle of my freshman year, and no sooner began to fall in love with my new hometown, Springfield, Pennsylvania, along with all the good looking guys in my class, when my parents announced another transfer nine months later. I couldn’t believe it. I thought they were kidding, and when they told me where we were going, I thought they were nuts! Florence, South Carolina, was where the new Union Carbide plant was going to be built, so that is where my Dad was being sent, with us in tow.

Oh my God, South Carolina conjured up cornfields, children running barefoot through green pastures and milking cows. I was a city girl. All I could do for weeks was cry. So did my mom. All my Springfield buddies gave me a huge party and promised to keep in touch, but that did not ease the pain. They even showed up on moving day to help us pack the moving van, but that seemed to make matters worse.

Six hundred miles later as we approached the South Carolina border, the rural communities and farmland sent me into a full fledged depression. I found no humor in Pedro’s quirky “South of the Border” billboards that lined I-95 for miles. So this is South Carolina? Yuk.

This was 1966. What I was soon to find out was there were very few Northerners to ever take up residence in Florence. On my first day of school, which was October of my sophomore year, one of the kids said she had never met a Yankee before, and asked me if I was a carpetbagger? Heck, I did not even know what a Yankee was, much less a carpetbagger! When I told my parents, they couldn’t believe it. The next day, as I tried to talk to a girl in the lunch-line, she asked me what church would I be attending, a question no one up North had ever asked me. When I answered the Catholic Church, I could tell by her scrunched up face that this was a very unpopular answer for a town with a Baptist Church on every corner. I knew I was doomed.

To top it all off, and as I look back on it now, I looked like someone from outer space to all of them. I was wearing mini-skirts, patterned hose and heels and pull over sweaters. My Southern counterparts were decked out in long skirts below the knee, button down shirts and Mary-Janes. Yes, they all snickered as I walked down the hall to my classes, where the girls seemed to snub me, and the boys seemed very intrigued, which made the girls snub me all the more. It was torture.

A month later, I had made friends at church, but the girls in school wouldn’t give me an inch, even when I tried to dress more like them. I knew that I had to reach out to make my own friends. I had to be the aggressor, the one to make the move because they sure did not want to have anything to do with me. My new goal was to talk to everyone, every chance I got, in class, at lunch, join clubs, kiss butt!

One day in gym class, I got really brave and started a conversation with Lyn Haselden, the most popular coed at McClenaghan High. She was beautiful, and as luck would have it, beautiful inside as well, as she invited me to a pajama party at her house on Friday night. It was that single act of kindness that opened the doors for me. Her approval made the others give me a chance to move into what had been forbidden territory…the inner circle. Today, she and I are still the greatest of friends.

My senior year I became a cheerleader, an elected position, and was named “Most Friendly” by the 478 kids in my senior class, something I was incredibly proud of, not because I made so many friends, but because I BECAME THE FRIEND who welcomed every single kid who was new to the school. I knew how it felt to be the outsider. I knew the loneliness of missing the acceptance once had back home.

It was a battle being the new kid on the block, especially being a “Catholic Yankee Carpetbagger mini-skirted extraterrestrial,” but what I learned was that in life you can’t wait for what you want or hope something is going to happen. You have to help to make it happen. You have to go after it. And when it comes to welcoming a new family to the neighborhood, or helping someone new in town network through the community to find a job, I’m there! This “moving experience” of moving away from the security of HOME and friends and family, was a “moving experience” for me. It moved me to be a better person, and isn’t that what we should do with all negative things in our lives?

Squeeze those lemons and make lemonade!

When it comes to sisters, I have the world’s greatest. And I didn’t come by them as easy as others do. Maybe that’s why I appreciate them more. You see, I was twelve when the first one was born. I had been praying for a sister since I was about five-years old, because my best friend, Randy, had two sisters. It was boring being an only child. But what I did not realize at that time was that you needed a Daddy in the picture to make a baby. Heck, no one told me that.

Nevertheless, being the good little Catholic School girl that I was, I sought help from St. Gerard, the patron Saint of Motherhood. I carried this little four by three card around with his picture on the front and a prayer on the back, and I recited it every single day. Not only did I recite it, but also did it on my knees, and Catholics know that gets prayers answered faster…supposedly.

“Dear St. Gerard, powerful intercessor and wonder worker of our day, I call upon thee and seek thy aid.” Yep, I still remember it word for word. But it wasn’t working. Meanwhile another girl friend, Lucille, got seven siblings while I continued to pray for one. Surely they were a good Catholic family not using birth control. But why wasn’t God answering my prayers? And what about St. Gerard? What was wrong with my mom, I wondered? And so I asked her.

After an abbreviated discussion on the facts of life, I realized the only hope for my sister dreams to come true was for my mom to marry Pete, who she had been dating for several years. Even though I did not want to share my Mom with Pete, I was smart enough to put the pieces together: Mom plus Pete makes baby. Somehow.

When I was eight and a half, I was the flower girl as my mom and Pete said “I Do!” I knew that little sister was soon to follow. But it did not happen fast. My mom had fibroid issues and other fertility problems, but I never stopped praying. My knees were killing me, but I was relentless.

Four years later, I was ecstatic when my mom told me the good news of her pregnancy; I immediately predicted that the baby would be a girl, and that she would be born on August 13. I was absolutely right and even got to name her.

Donna Marie united our family with her birth in 1964, the year of the Beatles by the way, as we all cherished and adored her. I was more like her second mother than a sister since I was so much older, but from the day she was born, she has been a treasure. Thank you St. Gerard.

Then, in 1969, I met my birth father for the very first time and low and behold, he was married, and his wife was expecting a baby.

Once again, I predicted a girl. Could I be lucky enough to land another sister? You bet. Cristy Clair was born on February 19, 1970 – a day that will go down in infamy.

Even though I no longer got down on my knees everyday to St. Gerard because he and God had already answered my prayer, I knew they had made it happen again. And I was determined to be an integral part of Cristy’s life, even though this relationship with my newfound father was in its early stages. It saddened me that I would never be able to live with Cristy and watch her grow from day to day to day like I had with Donna, because she lived 600 miles away. However, I knew I loved her and would make the best of every second we could spend together.

Today, I am blessed – very blessed. These two sisters are my best friends. They call me just to chat or for advice. They e-mail me pictures and stories about the funny things their kids do. Both of them recently called me on the morning I was doing my last TV talk show after twenty-three years, knowing how painful it was for me. Yes, even though they have so much going in their own busy lives, they’ve never missed a chance to say, “I love you” and show they care. The fact that I was not able to have children of my own has made these sisters even more precious. I’m so proud of the incredible women they have become, and more so, the outstanding mothers they have become.

Strangely enough, my two sisters are not even related to each other, yet they have grown close just having me as their sister. We’ve shared holidays and birthdays. We’ve shared laughter and tears.

You will never hear me use the word “half sister” when describing either of them. Donna and I may have the same mother, and Cristy and I have the same birth father, but they are my “WHOLE” sisters in every sense of the word, and their love and support has made me “WHOLE.”

Our marriage was perfect. Twenty-four years of wedded bliss until Saturday, September 6, forevermore to be known as “Black Saturday.” Dropping me off at The Market Common to emcee the Beach, Boogie and Barbeque Festival, my husband headed south to Georgetown to purchase the iPhone. He had researched it for months and salivated, just like Pavlov’s dog, at the thought of owning one. Yes, boys and their toys! But hey, our marriage had survived golf, salt-water aquariums, computer video games, garage bands, books and more books. Who knew that the iPhone could pose such a threat? Every time I need my husband lately, I get a “BUSY SIGNAL.”

For the first few weeks of this iPhone life, I felt like Chuck had given birth to this new entity without any help from me. We did four years of fertility together fifteen years ago and now, all of a sudden, I was feeling left out. It was his “new baby,” and I was an outsider, just like the wicked step-mother. Every waking moment was spent setting up his address and phone book, his calendar of business appointments, entering friends and family birthdays, learning all the programs, downloading games and applications galore and learning the short cuts on texting; you know… IDK, LOL, 2G2BT, UFB, ETC.

He then spent a full week downloading some of his favorite music to listen to while flying over to Switzerland on our vacation. Whatever happened to the time we use to spend on the plane working crossword puzzles together or playing gin-rummy?

Our vacation was glorious, but that iPhone never left his side. Side, nothing, it was glued to his palm the entire time. Oh, I admit it is absolutely an incredible piece of technology. Did you know that you can hold it up next to the TV or radio and it can tell you the name and title of what song is playing? It also has GPS; now I’ll never get him to stop and ask for directions – frightening. However, did it have to accompany us on every step of our journey to the top of the Alps and back again?

As my husband explained, “Why not?”

Well, I’ll tell you why not, because if I am wearing a new black teddy to bed I want someone to notice!

This new member of our family can, of course, take pictures, and can even flash a photo up on the screen of the person who is calling you if you have their photos saved in the system. It can play word games and number games, search the internet, track your stocks and forecast the weather.

I’m telling you, Chuck is in love with this thing, but at least he is at home, in his office, not on the streets, in bars or strip clubs for goodness sake. There are worse things I tell myself. Yet, I miss him. We used to watch The Practice, Boston Legal and Grey’s Anatomy together. He used to talk to me while we were working out at the gym, and now he has the ear bud of his iPhone piping Beatles music into his head. We use to play a mean game of Scrabble, and the winner got to…well, you don’t need to know that. Let’s just say, I miss playing Scrabble, win or lose.

I used to wonder why they called it the “i” Phone. Then I realized that it was because, if you own one, you do not need anyone else for anything. “i” can do it all. “i” am all knowing. “i” can conquer the world.

They did not call it the “us” phone for a reason.

Truly, I am grateful that my marriage is not threatened by another woman, even though I would certainly know how to compete with one, whereas I am not sure I know how to compete with a phone…a phone that can do everything no less, even vibrate on cue.

Thank God it can’t cook. He’ll always need me! B4N.

Who would have thought that Thanksgiving, 1971, would lead me into an adventure that would give me the title of “The Country’s First Female Santa Claus,” with national publicity to boot! Headlines from major newspapers read “Santa Girl,” “Santa by Day, Beauty Queen by Night” and the one I hated most, “Bra Burning Santa!”

As student at Francis Marion University in Florence, South Carolina, I lived at home with my parents and had a part-time job working in the ladies clothing section at Treasure City Department Store, a one-stop shop for any item you needed for home, garden and personal needs. This was long before Wal-Mart.

Thanksgiving was their biggest shopping day of the year. First of all, nothing else was open in Florence on this gluttonous holiday and, most importantly, Santa Claus arrived by parachute, rain or shine, and landed on the roof with thousands of screaming kids packed like sardines in the parking lot anxious to enter the store and sit on his lap.

This was tradition. However, the Santa that dropped from the sky was a professional paratrooper, while the lap Santa was a store employee seated in a red velvet chair ready for the doors to swing open to begin the most chaotic day of the year. Well, that’s what was supposed to happen, but not this year.

One hour to countdown and no inside Santa.

The manager, Mr. Atlas, was in a panic as phone calls to Santa’s home were going unanswered. Then, with thirty minutes left before the big event, the middle-aged male employee arrives, looking disheveled and reeking of alcohol only to make it into the stock room turned dressing room, and passes out.

Mass hysteria from the management sent shock waves throughout the yet-to-open store. Who could play Santa? There were only two male employees, one being the manager and the other a crotchety old man who worked in hardware. So, being the bold, brazen teenager that I was, I went straight to Mr. Atlas’ office and suggested I could do the Santa role for this day. He said, “No way. Santa is a man.”

“Yes, that is true, but as a cheerleader at FMU I have learned to talk really deep,” as I proceeded to demonstrate with a bass “Ho, Ho, Ho!” “Besides,” I continued in my lowest voice, “You are desperate!”

Next thing I know he sends me to the stock room and asked one of my associates to get some cotton batting from the fabric and notions department to fatten me up. Some one else was sent to the hosiery department to fetch a pair of ladies stockings to put on my head to hide my hair, and a pair of men’s black boots were stuffed with toilet paper until they were comfortable enough for me to wear. I was starting to feel the heat as the cotton securely wrapped around my middle had me sweating bullets, and I did not even have the Santa suit on yet. What had I gotten myself into?

The Christmas bells began to ring signaling the kickoff of the holiday season, and the opening of the doors led shoppers and the media on a red-carpeted pathway to Santa. Yes, I admit I was a little bit nervous with the store’s reputation resting on me, but after fooling several kids with my magical disguise, I was on a roll. Dealing with the kids was a cinch. Trying to tinkle during my ten-hour work-shift and fit my bigger than normal butt into the ladies room stall was the biggest problem. Don’t laugh! When I took off my belt and dropped my pants all the cotton from my upper half fell into the toilet causing me to re-stuff all over again.

This was more exhausting and challenging than I’d ever dreamed, but it was also an incredible “high” for me, because it was the most successful promotion in the history of the store. Not only did they keep me on as Santa for the entire season, they doubled my salary to come back the following year. But, I am getting ahead of the story.

I’m sure you’re wondering if anyone surmised I was a woman. Of course the parents did, and when some of the older kids looked skeptical, I would whisper to them that Santa was sick today and asked me to fill in, but made them promise to keep the secret. They thought that was cool. Most of the younger kids didn’t know any better.

Two days after Thanksgiving, the Florence Morning News broke the story with the headline, “Florence’s First Woman Santa,” accompanied by a photo of me as Santa Claus, along with a picture of me in a swim-suit taken at the Miss Florence Pageant a few months earlier, but that’s where the confusion began. The Associated Press International picked up the story the next day and articles appeared all over the country with warped headlines like “ Ho, Ho, Hot Santa” as seen on the front page of the Anchorage Times, and this one, “Sex Change Santa,” from some daily publication in Las Vegas, Nevada.

Yet, the headline that was used most often, and the one I hated most was “Bra Burning Santa.”

It’s kind of like that game of “Telephone-Tell a Friend,” where one person whispers to the next and by the time the story gets back to the first person, it is a totally different account. Keep in mind this was 1971, and some thought this pageant-girl turned Santa was a women’s lib stunt, hence the “Bra-Burner” headline that caught on nationally. Anyone who knows me is smart enough to know that I never thought of burning my bra then, nor would I be able to now without a huge case of midriff bulge, if you get the ugly picture. But this sold newspapers.

My instant celebrity status got me marriage proposals, letters from men behind bars and, yes, even an offer from Playboy, which my mother and I thought was a joke, but found it to be embarrassingly legitimate. Yes, I turned it down and never looked back. Hey, I was the President of the South Carolina Catholic Youth Organization for goodness sakes. What would the Pope think?

The saddest part of the job was the many children who asked me to bring their daddies home from Viet Nam. As tears filled my eyes, all I could say to them was that their fathers were protecting our country, and they should be very proud of the job they are doing. Then I’d hug them and start in on the toy conversation, never promising delivery, just looking for suggestions to curtail any possible disappointment for the kids whose parents just could not afford to produce the entire wish list.

Being Santa Claus was one of the most rewarding jobs I have ever had, but it was a grueling four weeks. I loved the mission, but the beard gave me a rash, the mustache chapped my lips, I got a bladder infection from not tinkling as often as I needed, and the suit was so heavy and hot that the sweating enabled me to loose sixteen pounds! Halleluiah – faster than Weight Watchers!

The boss loved me. Not only had I saved his butt, but the store received national publicity, crowds of unbelievable proportions, the biggest sales volume in the history of the store and even created a new phenomenon in the pet department, as I recommended that the kids buy rabbit pellets to feed the reindeer. Obviously, I was offered the job though eternity, but only continued one more Christmas.

So while most of you face the holidays with cravings of your grandmother’s fruitcake or your mom’s gingerbread or reminisce about the good ole days of live trees and silver tinsel, I get a little twinkle in my eye every Christmas as I fondly recall my notorious past, when I brightened the hearts of children as the nation’s “Bra Burning Santa.”