My Mother’s Voice

Alzheimer’s being the conniving thieving bitch that  it is, my mother wasn’t herself in the final years of her life. The  woman I visited in the Alzheimer’s special care unit was a stranger wearing my mother’s skin but not much else, like the invasion of the body snatchers had taken place, month after month beneath the surface, until one day we looked and the woman we knew was gone, replaced by some alien being. An imposter. Intruder alert. Intruder alert. She died back in 2012. Don’t worry; I won’t be getting maudlin on you.  My real mother–not that stranger in a wheel chair, head nodding on her shoulder–is who I want to think about today.  My real mother —Enid Maude Good nee Hayden, a prim, old-fashioned name, perhaps the only thing about her I didn’t love— was British-born and had a lovely London lilt to her voice her whole life even though she left England in the mid-1950’s. I suppose at thirty, her vocal patterns were already frozen in place.  Sounding like a cross between

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Flashback Friday: Photographic Memory [memoir]

I usually take an imaginary Walking Tour of London on Fridays but the reality of Thanksgiving stopped me in my tracks.
Instead, I’m sharing an earlier post, flashing back to the 1980’s when I worked as a copywriter at Max Factor in Hollywood.  I hope you enjoy it. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got to go on a real walk to get rid of some of these very real pumpkin pie pounds.


Photographic Memory

When my boss at Max Factor was assigned to the company’s London office for six months we were both thrilled. She got to go to London —LONDON!— and I jumped from in-house copywriter straight into her Creative Director shoes. Suddenly I was in everybody’s rolodex; the girl to call if you were working the freelance beauty market in L.A. in the very early 80’s. Along with other writers who came out of their introverted shells to offer their services—No, Im still doing the bulk of the in-house copy, thank you very much—graphic  designers, photographers and illustrators all wanted to come in and show me their books. Id schluff most of them off while trying to maintain the illusion that I had much say in the matter. 

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