About My Blog: Dolce Zitella

Welcome to my blog Dolce Zitella. Doesn’t it sound like a decadent dessert? It’s not. For those of you whose roots do not trace back to that lovely boot-shaped country, let me translate. Dolce Zitella means “sweet spinster.” That’s right, I’m a woman of a certain age who’s never been married. It’s okay with me, but the word spinster seems to press a lot of women’s buttons. I mean, really, it’s only a word. But if shrouding the word in a layer of mystery and romance makes some people feel better, so be it.

While I have something to say about being a single woman, that’s not all I have to say. So it doesn’t really matter if you’re single or married, younger or older. After all, my younger sisters – I used to be you. Whether you’re adding highlights and lowlights or you’ve stopped dying your gray roots, whether your hot body is the reward of working out or the result of menopause induced hot flashes – we’re all part of the same sisterhood.

Like you, I’m just trying to balance career with the rest of my life, whether it’s spending time with family and friends; meeting a new man; being proactive about my health; trying out a new recipe; embarking on my latest home improvement project; taking a night class; engrossed in a book; binge watching a television series; or searching for that perfect shade of red nail polish…

Dolce Zitella will be updated on alternating Thursdays. Visit and bring your friends.

Dolce Zitella's Latest Post, Life Lessons, Pop Culture, Writers and Writing

The Typewriter

Looking for something to do over the weekend? Here’s a re-post about what happened the last time I poked around at a yard sale.

Yard sales are common in my town but I seldom, if ever, take part. For one thing, to have a crack at the really good stuff, you must arrive early and I’m not a morning person, especially on Saturdays. Add to that my inability to shake off the old city-dweller mentality that no matter how tempting a curio might be, “there’s just no room for it.” So, it was very out of character for me to check out the yard sale taking place in my neighborhood this past weekend.

As I approached the house, I saw the usual folding tables filled with knickknacks and gently used kitchenware. There were books, of course, and a seemingly brand-new tennis racket. I paused in front of the historic banker’s chair that was in need of a little TLC, and considered the antique wooden ironing board that yearned to be a piece of art displayed on a kitchen wall.

Call it serendipity, or fate, that I should spot a manual typewriter. I couldn’t believe my good fortune that, as late as 11:00 in the morning, a vintage Royal had not yet been scooped up. My first thought: it’s still available because it’s expensive. My second thought: didn’t Kerouac use a Royal? I knew about his famous Underwood – the typewriter he used to write On the Road – but I remembered reading somewhere that although he favored the Underwood, at one point, he also used a Royal. Another literary giant had used a Royal, but I couldn’t place who it was.

On closer inspection, the putty colored typewriter was dirty, perhaps nicotine stained, and laden with the kind of dust that accumulates from years spent in an attic or basement. The keys had long ago yellowed and the roller was splattered with white-out. Its carrying case was even more soiled, and I couldn’t tell if it was leather or some sort of fabric that had petrified. Still, this was a vintage Royal that, given its body’s metal construction and iconic red logo lettering, I guessed to be from the mid-1950’s. I doubted it actually worked. In fact, I didn’t even care. I just knew I wanted it. And for ten bucks, it was mine.

As soon as I got it home, I went online:

How to clean a vintage typewriter
When did Royal introduce the portable Quiet De Luxe model
Famous authors who used a Royal

Turns out a small paint brush, a soft cotton rag, a gentle hand, and the sparing use of water and rubbing alcohol have gotten me off to a good start. I think my typewriter is a 1956 model. And Hemingway was the other writer who used a Royal. In fact, he had three of them.

Why have I been so fixated with this typewriter all week? It’s the sheer romance of the whole thing.

Think about it… In this digital age where first our PC’s, and now our laptops, become obsolete every couple of years, we don’t keep them long enough to create a history. We don’t get attached to them. We just discard them. Years from now, will I even remember what version of Windows I used to write this blog post? But I do remember the typewriter I learned on, and used to write my college papers and my first short stories – a blue Smith Corona. It didn’t possess the mystique of an old Royal. I don’t imagine anything could.

This Royal is going to sit on a shelf in the room where I write. It will be more – much more – than a conversation piece. It will be my reminder of what’s important. My talisman. The compass that guides me to whatever comes next.

Girl Talk

Barefoot

Recently, I wrote about the benefits of taking an Epsom salt bath in a blog post about self-care. I’m still on a self-care kick and my latest attempt has involved a new DIY pedicure treatment. Sidebar here: a few years ago, one of my DIY pedicures landed me in the emergency room, the heel of my right foot a bloody mess from using a callous remover that bore an alarming resemblance to a cheese slicer. This time around, I tried a safer method that promised to not only rid me of my callouses, but to leave my feet as soft and soothe as a baby’s. I know what you’re thinking. What a sucker!

In my defense, I read about this product in a reputable magazine, and the gals on one of the morning talk shows raved about its dramatic results. A couple of late-night clicks on my laptop, and a few days later it magically arrived on my front porch. What could go wrong?

The directions seemed simple enough. You slip your feet into plastic booties filled with a clear gelatinous substance and you don’t move for an hour. Then you slowly slosh and wobble your way to the bathroom, grateful you haven’t fallen flat on your back, and gingerly step into the bathtub.

One at a time, you remove the botties, and rinse the goo off your feet. Then you do nothing, but wait. Really, nothing. In fact, the directions are very clear about this. You can soak your feet. You can apply lotion. But you are not to use any other products. Because in 5 to 7 days your feet will begin to peel. That’s right, you’ll start molting like a lizard.

Day 5, my feet look no different. Same on Day 6. And on Day 7, I’m still waiting. How could a product that melts my toe nail polish do nothing to rid me of my alligator heels?

Then on Day 8, I see a few flakey spots. More the next day. And the shedding is underway.

Day 11 – my feet aren’t fit to be viewed by human eyes. There’s dead skin everywhere – on my floors, in my bed, and don’t ask what’s inside my socks. The directions for this miracle product warn the process could last up to two weeks. I’m tempted to use the cheese slicer callous remover that resulted in a trip to the emergency room. On Day 12 my feet look so gross I soak them in scalding water and feverishly scrub them with a nail brush, swearing I will never do this again.

Day 14 – Cue the harp music. The miracle has occurred. My feet are so velvety smooth I want to go barefoot. Walk in the sand. Dance in a field of wild flowers. I settle for wearing strappy sandals to work.

In the end, was it worth it? Yup. Would I do it again? You betcha.

Life Lessons

My Dad – The Ad Man

Father’s Day is this Sunday. Here’s a re-post about my dad.

Back in the day, my father was a G-rated version of Don Draper – one of the original “ad men” of the 1960’s. For most of his career, he worked in the advertising department at NBC. As a child, I didn’t understand what he did, but I surmised it was important because he worked in Rockefeller Center and had a view of the skating rink from his office windows.

Years later, I understood just what his job entailed. His department was responsible for all the print advertising for the network. The graphic artists and copywriters created ads and he produced them, by working closely with engravers and typesetters. He then bought space in the various newspapers and magazines that would run the ads. Faced with the pressure of constant deadlines, he often schmoozed and negotiated with the printers, all the while cajoling the artists to get them to turn their work in on time. My father worked long hours. And he suffered from migraines.

My father’s immigrant father owned a small, independent, neighborhood fruit and vegetable store in Queens, New York. My grandfather spent his life lifting and carrying crates.

Despite how tired my father must have been from his long work week at NBC, he sometimes helped out at the family store on Saturdays, and I doubt he and my grandfather ever talked to each other about work. I’m not sure if my grandfather understood the power of the media or saw the work my father did as meaningful.

When my father retired, he traded in his suit and briefcase for a set of golf clubs. These days, he goes out to breakfast with the ROMEOS (Retired Old Men Eating Out), wearing the Life is Good baseball cap I gave him a few years ago. He thought the slogan was a reference to his retirement. But it was also meant to acknowledge how hard he worked to give our family a good life.

Thank you, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

Girl Talk

A Big Ol’ Bag of Epsom Salt

Everybody’s talking about self-care. It’s the new buzz word. But it means something different to every woman I know. It might be daily yoga practice for one haggard working mom, while it’s all about reclining on the couch binge-watching Hallmark movies for another working gal. My mother is very clear about self-care: she just wants some quiet time to read a good book. My office mate’s self-care takes place in the kitchen, with flour, sugar, butter, and a rolling pin. Me, all I need is a bathtub full of hot water and a big ol’ bag of Epsom salt.

Epsom salt, really?

Yup.

Since Epsom salt is having a moment, I’ve noticed a few new fancy label options that may be infused with lavender or eucalyptus. And you may prefer that. But for me, the whole point of Epsom salt is its purity – no dyes, chemicals, or added fragrance. Just a tried-and-true medicinal that works. This stuff is chock-full of magnesium and when I dissolve two cups of it in my bath water and soak for 15 minutes, I get the same benefit as a pricey massage. In fact, a large bag of Epsom salt costs about five dollars whether you buy it in the drug store or super market. But please don’t let that hefty bag detract you. You could store your Epsom salt in a pretty footed glass apothecary jar or a kitschy vintage tin to add a decorative touch in your bathroom.

Trust me on this. An Epsom salt bath will relax you, relieve your aches and pains, and help you get a good night’s sleep. Now that’s self-care!

Girl Talk, Life Lessons

Wonder Women

Here’s a re-post for all the wonder women out there!

Girl Power has created a whole generation of wonder women. And I am grateful that so many of these ladies have had my back in times of crisis or as I was navigating a major life event.

I didn’t plan it that way. It just sort of happened.

It started with the medical profession. When my primary care physician was retiring, the doctor coming in as replacement was a young woman, just starting out. I was told she was “good with women’s issues.” She wasn’t just good, she was great. Over the years, she referred me to a female ob-gyn, and a female surgeon who, in turn, recommended a female oncologist. When it was time to pick an eye doctor and I could’ve gone with the stern-looking older gentleman with the bow-tie, or the gal who was my age and dressed in smart Talbots separates, who do you think I chose? And yes, my dentist is also a woman. The bottom-line: I am healthy today because of the collective skill, smarts, and compassion of all these women.

Now let’s talk money. After working with several fast-talking, young, male financial advisors who left me confused and skittish about stocks and annuities, I got lucky and luck was a lady. My new financial advisor, a single woman like me, finally demystified the whole investing process and gave me confidence to boot. Recently, I chose a well-known and successful Boston realtor – then a family member recommended an excellent real estate attorney, who in turn connected me with an accountant. All three of these professionals are women and their collective acumen helped me move from a small condo to a house of my own.

I hope all this doesn’t sound like I’m anti-man. Believe me, I like ‘em and I’m still hoping to marry one someday. All I’m saying is that there’s a profound truth in that familiar quote about the iconic dancers Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. She did everything he did, only backwards and in high heels.

Girl Talk, Life Lessons, Mothers and Daughers

When Mother and Daughter Become Friends

Mother’s Day is this Sunday, May 8th. In honor of my mom, who’s also my best friend, I’d like to share a post a wrote about her a few years ago.

When I was a child, the constant dialogue I had with my mother took the form of instruction: wash your hands, eat your carrots, look both ways before you step off the school bus. All else was in some way a teaching moment, like when I learned how to tell time, or asked what makes the leaves turn color in the fall.

The nature of our conversations shifted when I had something to offer in return. And by the time I was a ‘tween I could tell she enjoyed my company because she’d pick me up from school and take me with her on errands she could’ve done earlier in the day without me. I remember going shopping with her when she needed a new dress for a cousin’s wedding. And it was fun.

Once I was in high school, I’d come to know her not only as my mother, but also as a person. When we sat at the kitchen table sharing a pot of tea, she would tell me stories about her childhood or her courtship with my father. We’d often discuss a movie we’d seen or a current event. She’d want to know my opinion. And I could make her laugh.

I knew I was an adult when she began asking me for advice. At first it was about the menu for one of her dinner parties. Then she wanted my input on choosing new wallpaper. But it mattered most when she, as an only child, was the sole caregiver to her aging mother.

Despite living 200 miles apart, not a day goes by that we don’t speak on the phone. And we Skype every Sunday. Maybe my mother and I are unusually close, but I don’t think we’re such an oddity. Because when I look at the women I know – from every race and ethnic group, scattered across different regions of the country, spanning several generations – there’s often a common thread: the profoundly intimate relationship between mothers and daughters. And it’s not just because they are mother and daughter – it’s because they are friends.

Pop Culture

The Candy Holidays

During the past few weeks, I kept seeing the same message: Follow the bunny – he has the chocolate! And I was reminded of a post I wrote a while back that still rings true.

It’s over. I can breathe a sigh of relief. You know what I mean. The candy holidays. No normal human being can resist the constant barrage of sugary treats that appear in September and last until April.

It starts with that damn candy corn and the “fun size” candy bars. You can have a few because they’re so small, harmless really. Yeah, right. It’s only fun until you suddenly can’t zip up your favorite jeans unless you lie down on your bed and hold your breath. Let’s say that by some small miracle you make it through Harvest without gaining any weight. Now it’s the hap-happiest season and you’re surrounded by candy canes and chocolate Santas. Be careful here or you might get sucked into the sugar vortex that leads to an obscenely gigantic heart-shaped box of caramel and nut-covered chocolates, and a bag of tiny red cinnamon candies that, if you eat one too many, will burn your tongue and leave the roof of your mouth numb. Next you’re hopping down the bunny trail trying to dodge those pastel-shelled chocolate mini-eggs, (I refer to as “devil eggs”) and neon-yellow marshmallow chicks.

As alluring as all that candy is every time you go shopping at the supermarket, drugstore, or large retail chain, the real challenge, at least for me, is the day after Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day and Easter when holiday candy gets marked down to half-price. Forget the allure of the candy itself. Who can resist such a bargain? Clearly, not me.

Easter Sunday has come and gone and here’s my dilemma:

What to do about those Peeps? A friend of mine once told me of a long-standing tradition that took place at her ivy-league university. After eating one or two of the gritty, sticky little things, the rest of the brood got put into the microwave. To get nuked. Until they exploded. I swear I’m not making this up.

Summer’s coming and fortunately, there are no Fourth of July sweets to tempt me.

Girl Talk, Life Lessons, Mothers and Daughers

A Red Swing Coat

On a recent spring shopping spree with my mom, I was reminded of another one of our shopping expeditions. Following is a re-post about that earlier outing.

She stepped out of the taxi, so vibrant, so cute, in her hot pink woolen swing coat. Her lipstick was a perfect match. She opened her vintage black patent leather kiss lock purse to pay the driver. Then she was on the move. She clearly had places to go. It was many years ago, but I still remember that older lady in the bubblegum pink swing coat, and how I thought: I want to be her someday.

Now let me preface this by saying that my mom has not yet reached the age of that older lady in the pink swing coat. She has a way to go yet. But during one of our recent shopping expeditions, the topic of dressing one’s age came up.

Me, I’m of the belief that looking fashionable has no age limit. My mother, however, was concerned that the pair of dress pants she was trying on were not exactly age appropriate for her. “Are they too trendy?” she wanted to know.

Forget that we were shopping in a store that caters to women of a certain age.

“No,” I asserted. “They fit you like a glove – and you look great.”

She shrugged, “I don’t know…”

Just then, the older lady in the pink swing coat came to mind.

“Do you like these pants?” I asked, “Will you enjoy wearing them?” and before she could answer, I added, “Then who cares what anybody else thinks.”

I shouldn’t have had to convince her to buy the pants. It’s a shame that we, as women, are always questioning ourselves, especially about our appearance.

As for me, I’m still planning to wear a lively swing coat someday. But I’m not a pink girl. So mine will be red. And with it, I’ll wear lipstick that’s a perfect match.

Dolce Zitella's Latest Post

Dedicated to New York’s Bravest

When I heard chirping coming from the hot-wired fire/carbon monoxide alarm in the basement, I didn’t panic. I figured it was an anomaly caused by the brutally cold temperature and fifty-mile-an-hour winds outside, and I reset the alarm. However, when it happened again, I grabbed my coat, went outside, and called the fire department. Within moments, four firefighters were on the scene. Despite being masked up for Covid-19, I could tell these were fine looking men. They bounded down to the basement, checked things out with a carbon monoxide meter, and assured me there was no leak. Then they did a sweep of my whole house. The conclusion: it was time to replace the basement alarm. I thanked them profusely and they were on their way.

What can I say about firefighters that hasn’t already been said? That the hunky firemen stereotype is founded in reality. That they are superheroes who wear over fifty pounds of gear instead of tights and a cape. That they risk their lives by running into burning buildings to save total strangers.

I do have something else that needs to be said.

Recently, the term “long haulers” has been given to those who contracted Covid-19 and, months later, suffer lingering health problems. They are getting much media attention and my sympathy and good wishes go out to them. But there’s another group of long haulers out there – the firefighters who struggle with lung and cardiovascular disease and battle cancer as a result of their exposure at Ground Zero in the weeks and months following September 11, 2001. Why no mention of them? In less than six months, our nation will mark the twentieth anniversary of that horrible day and, along with it, two decades of suffering.

Most New Yorkers could tell you that 343 firefighters perished on September 11^th. But they may not be aware that at least 241 firefighters have since died from illnesses linked to exposure at Ground Zero. Sadly, dear friends of mine have lost two brothers this way. One passed away four years ago, the other four weeks ago. These men were New York’s Bravest, even in the long haul. They will remain in the hearts of their family, their friends, and their community forever. And the best way we can honor them is to never forget.

Life Lessons, Writers and Writing

A Writer’s Writer – Carson McCullers

The following is a re-post from January 2018. It remains timely today.

She was a rock star. Her first novel, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, brought her critical acclaim at the age of twenty-three and she made her mark on the literary scene of the 1940’s and ‘50’s at a time when the field was still overwhelmingly dominated by men. Her body of work hauntingly echoed the themes of loneliness, unrequited love, and being different. A southern gothic writer, she railed against racism and homophobia – and her message still resonates today. Her name was Carson McCullers.

While living in a Brooklyn brownstone called “February House” with a menagerie of other writers and artists, she wrote The Member of the Wedding. When she was in residence at Yaddo Artists’ Colony, she penned The Ballad of the Sad Café. Later, as her health was failing, her home was a Victorian with a wrap-around porch and a view of the Hudson River, not far from where I grew up. Each time I passed by that house, I imagined Carson, decades earlier, sitting on her porch, peering from her window as she sat at her typewriter, perhaps walking down South Broadway in the mornings.

When I came upon a grainy, 1958 recording of her reading from her work, I was awestruck. There was a fragility in her voice, which quivered, as though she were about to cry. That shakiness, along with her thick Georgia accent, conjured in my mind an elderly southern lady rather than a woman who, at the time, was only forty-one-years-old.

Carson McCullers left us a beautiful literary legacy. Whether you’re looking for a thought-provoking book for yourself, or a good-read for your book group, her prose is lovely and her message will surely ignite great discussion.