Water aerobics

My husband has been after me to do exercise in the gym’s pool as a means of alleviating some of the cramps and rigidity that come along with Parkinson’s. I have resisted because I a)  don’t like to get wet unless a lot of sand and a mai tai are involved, b) would have to wear a bathing suit and might inadvertently scare someone to death, c) think that if God should look down on his creations and see twenty five or so old ladies jogging in place in the shallow end while shaking their booty to “YMCA” He might regret his six days of effort and send a lightening bolt down to blot us out.

My fate was sealed yesterday, however, when my husband accompanied me to my neurology check-up and the good doctor said “Why don’t you try water aerobics?” I pinched hubby’s inner thigh as hard as I could but it did nothing to stop the “Why don’t you ever listen to me?” lecture. “Doctor, I have been telling her to use the pool and try the sauna. I have told her it would be good for her. She won’t listen to me. Maybe she will listen to you!” Four eyes stared at me for a response. “I won’t be able to put my bra back on because I’ll be damp.” The doctor assured me that going braless for the ride alone in my car to get back home was not going to undermine that moral fabric of America. “I’ll get toenail fungus.”

Several further attempts to talk sense into my spouse and the doctor failed and I was made to promise to go to water aerobics at least twice a week. So when we got home I dragged out my gym bag and packed my suit so that it would be ready for today’s 10:30 AM jazzercise. I thought that I had arrived at the gym early but discovered that all the convenient lockers had been taken, so I was forced into the upper tier of lockers. I crammed in my stuff only to have one of those fights with my bra which insisted on tumbling out and getting stuck in the door when I tried to close it. I gave up, figuring at least I would recognize which was my locker by the dangling blue bra.

I debated about whether I should wear my glasses. If I wore them they would get splashed and be useless. If I did not wear them I would be wandering around nearly blind. I decided not to wear them. This was a good decision because the first person I saw was an elderly man in a speedo. I checked out the attendees. Two elderly men and twenty eight women aged 60 and above.  They all had short beauty parlor hair and a look about them that warned “If you splash my hair I will get my posse to hold you under.” I smiled, hoping I was actually facing someone. A whistle blew ending the swimming lesson for toddlers that preceded us. I prayed that the chlorine in the pool was set on stun.

We waddled into the shallow end and formed up in lines. Now, even though I have Parkinson’s, I am pretty active and can actually raise my arms above my head. As we did jumping jacks I scanned my fellow water mates and noticed that the energy level was about that of canned tuna. Our young instructor was vigorously leading us as we jogged, jacked, boxer punched, crossed going left, crossed going right, did the hoola hoop, and worked ourselves into a frenzy of physicality. Well, I was in a frenzy — my colleagues were looking at me like I was setting a very poor example. Several picked up their water wings and left. After about half and hour two young men came out to the pool with trays of drinks. Ah! The mai tais! No, it was only water. Many of the ladies took a long break to sip — I kept kicking up my legs and touching my ankles. Finally it was over and thirty over weight ladies ran for the locker room like so many wapiti at a lion infested watering hole.

On the drive home I reviewed the experience with an eye toward lessons learned: a) I need expensive water shoes and a new bathing suit, b) I must line up in the row at the back so that I my tendency to wander won’t cause another four-way accident, c) I should leave the bra at home.

Nero goes on a diet

Nero Kitty, all of a beefy two-year old tuxedo cat, following in his namesake’s steps, weighed in at almost 16 pounds at his recent vet visit. The vet compounded the indignity of  the rectal thermometer by simultaneously declaring “Nero is fat!” The vet looked at my own girth and did little to conceal his mental note “Oh, wow, how could that possibly happen when Nero has such a toned and svelte mommy person?” He then pointed to a display of “prescription” cat food — “this is what you should feed Nero until he loses 2 pounds.” It was a small bag — I figured it would last about three weeks. “How much for a bag,” I asked. “$17.50″

I am very good at quick math as long as it does not involve more than one digit so I did a comparison check with Nero’s current food regime: three weeks = 21 days x 1 large can of cat food a day at $.59 = $12.39 plus one bag of dry cat food at $3.99 = $16.38. Content that the new diet food is not a complete rip off I pick up a bag with every intention that I will be a responsible pet owner and help my hulking he cat slim down. Nero watched me with suspicion while the good doctor checked out the places where kitty’s testicles used to be. The doc left to go get the distemper and rabies shots. Nero bee-lined for the farthest corner under the chair where I was sitting and bit my ankle. Such a playful boy!

The doctor came back with his assistant, Olga, who looked like she was a member of the Russian weight-lifting team. “Neeroh, jist wat art to doink under theyer? Kome out and be a man. Sich as kowartly pussykat.” She lowered herself onto the floor eye to eye with the now hissing patient and gave him the stare. Nero sidled a bit then came out pretending he had every intention of coming out just then and was in no way intimidated into doing so. The doctor explained to Nero, “I am going to give you two shots, one here  (no reaction) and one there (Nero sheds vast amounts of hair while levitating for a good three seconds).

At home I set out a controlled portion of the new food. The next morning it is still there, except for one chunk which is on my chair in the living room. Nero wildly strops my legs and hovers at the feeding station. I explain to him that he has to eat his new food. I leave the kitchen to take my coffee back to bed. I am tackled on the stairs. Nero has a death grip around my ankle and clonks up the steps. It is not until we reach the landing that he lets go and screams into the bedroom to my pillow. He then proceeds to hack — the hack that precedes the delivery of a hair ball. I dive onto the bed, scooping him up in my arms, both of us collapsing on my husband’s side of the bed just as the delivery is made. Phew, that was close. As I wipe the remaining traces of hair wretch off hubby’s pillow Nero settles grumpily into his favorite spot.

By lunch time the food is still untouched and Nero is beginning to look wan. I break and set out a half a can of Friskies Cajun Chicken Fried Steak. Nero, still sleeping in the bedroom obviously had his cat food-detector on full volume since I heard the unmistakable noise of fifty stampeding buffalo – and there he was up to his whiskers in marvelous, yummy, sinfully delicious wet cat food. We will try the battle of wills again today although I already know the outcome.

Networking

Yesterday I attended a women’s networking practice session sponsored by my “career transitions” service  provider. It did not bear much resemblance to “real” networking situations. In the practice session we were divided into groups of five and each person had five minutes to tell the others about herself and her career goals. Things broke down right away since each of us was so eager to hand out our newly Averyied business cards that we practically flung them at each other. There were the Vista print ladies and the home printed ladies and one lady who had not thought about business cards at all. She was shunned.

All I could think about was the scene in American Psycho in which the Psycho is one-upped in the business card arena and sees blood (literally). But I was cool, confident in knowing my card was the best of the lot — it even had an elegant graphic of somewhat Asian-looking goldfish. One of the ladies ooohed and awed over it  and volunteered “I thought you were a project manager — what does a fish have to do with  project management?” She was shunned.

The first up to bat was in the customer service field. She announced that she would only take a job that was less than two miles from her house. I ventured that her requirement might severely narrow down the opportunities. She agreed but said it was a matter of taking care of her dogs — they needed to be walked twice a day and she did not like the way doggie day care walked the dogs so she had to do it herself. Fifteen minutes later she was still talking about her dogs. All I learned about her was that she had had one interview that did not go well and she did not understand why which was too bad because she was perfectly qualified even though her previous employer had a policy of not giving out references and it did not matter that she did not get a call back because the place was too far away anyway.  I tapped my watch to indicate that she was over her time allotment.

Lady number two started to cry. We all turned to her in alarm  as she unleased pent up anger, frustration, fear, and more anger. She had just moved here and was homesick. She got laid off two days after moving. She did not know anyone. She was in a speciality field and there were no jobs. We gave her tissues and water and hugs. Networking was off to a bad start. Lady number three told us she was in marketing but felt totally outclassed by the other marketing people she had met at the outplacement service and wondered how she was ever going to get a job when she was clearly so inferior. I spent the whole time she was talking debating with myself whether I should point out a typo on her business card. I decided to save it for another time.

It was my turn next and I had just begun giving my “thirty second comercial” (which I had been practicing at home) when the facilitator told us time was up. She reminded us to fill out our pink event assessment forms — I circled “less than satisfactory” but felt bad because it way not the facilitator’s fault that networking practice turned out to be more like sitting in the lunchroom with the girls than rubbing shoulders with women who could help further your already-breathtaking career.

I went home and sent out Linkedin connection invitations to all the ladies whose cards I had acquired. Maybe one of their connections will be a literary agent looking for the world’s next best-selling mystery novelist.

The hard times budget

Hubby and I ordered up our venti caramel machiatos and, because we are ever mindful of our budget, one chocolate donut to share, and after forking over our $11.00 we went to sit down in a quiet corner of Starbucks to review our financial situation. We are, after all, responsible adults who know when it is time to pull up our wellingtons. We began with a review of our income: $0.00. I was pleased — I had feared that this exercise would be long and painful. But I had not even cracked open the lid to my steaming drink and we were half-way through! We were about to start the expenses when Jacqui, the barrista, dropped by on her way out. We were happy to be diverted from an unpleasant task and so we chatted happily about nothing for ten minutes. Jacqui was on her way to her second job. Hubby and I looked at each other, both visualizing the other one heading off to his/her second job.

We returned our attention to the expenses. After a  half-hour discussion we had agreed on which items were essential and which could be given up  if it came down to that. On the list of essentials there were the real estate taxes of course, and the utilities, car maintenance and gas, medical insurance, food, and the cable package. “Dear,” I said, having a moment of doubt, “I think maybe we could run only one car and save some money that way.” Dear would not hear of it — “And what if I want to meet Richard for lunch at the same time you want to meet with the girls?” I had no good argument to counter with and so both cars remained. “Sweetie, what exactly is included in utilities?” “Well, heat, electricity, water.” “Well there you go, we can save a lot on utilities. It is spring so we don’t need heat and we can buy bottled water.” I was quite pleased with myself. My husband, who has a PhD and is much smarter than I am, looked at me with admiration and patted my hand.

Rachel, the Starbucks owner, dropped by for a chat. “And how are the Shaolins?” We bantered a bit and asked how the shop was doing during the recession and discovered that the last thing people give up when hit by hard times is their coffee drink. Rachel pointed to a handmade sign next to the cash — “Keep your priorities straight!”  We asked her to warm up a couple of scones and started to refocus on our budgeting. We were at the list of things that could be sacrificed: car wash, haircuts, lunches out, pedicures, and imported Stilton. “Honey,” I protested, “pedicures are not optional — imagine what people would say if I had really long toenails!” The husband was quite annoying when he muttered something about my losing weight and being able to see my feet. . .

We agreed we would get our hair cut at the upcoming cut-a-thon fundraiser at the barber shop. The suggested donation was only $15 — we could get two haircuts for the price of one done at the stylists. I fished the cut-a-thon flier out of my handbag keeping my thumb over the section that said men had a choice of bowl cut or buzz cut. The car wash line item was a no-brainer — we would park in front of our neighbor’s house and take advantage of their automatic sprinkler system. Lunches out was a bit more of a contentious subject. “Lin, you don’t need to meet your friends for lunch every week.” I sputtered “Oh, nice of you to think so! And what about your Thursday lunch with the boys, huh?” We had a heated debate which I won by reminding my spouse that networking was the key to finding a new job and it was imperative that I actually see people in order to network. My spouse was not quite as gracious in defeat as I had hoped and I thought I heard him mutter about how his lunches only cost $9 and mine cost $19 but I chose to be nobel and let it slide.

Imported Stilton may not be on your family’s significant expense list but it is on ours. All three of us are cheese-aholics with a preference for pungent cheese. Runny and pungent is even better. I reminded my husband of our wedding vows — “We will cross that bridge when we get to it.” (I am getting teary…) and we readily agreed to keep the Stilton even if it meant digging into our savings just a little bit.

We had done a good day’s work and had reduced our expenses to the point that we felt justified in splurging on dinner out to congratulate ourselves.

Linshaolin exits Big Corp and enters “career transition”

You, my loyal reader, will recall that I got the sack from Big Corp — apparently somewhere there was a miscommunication and it was just discovered that I was a “surplus” employee, along with 4999 others. And there is certainly no room for excess baggage these days. So out the door went 5000 of us, leaving behind our half-finished projects, our nested code cruelly unnested, our robotic arms left unattended so that they swing crazily over the assembly line like Lucy packing chocolates. But we were not allowed out the door without one last corporate experience to seal the deal — the exit interview.

Since I worked from home in the Boston area and since my manager resides in Boulder, a stand-in manager was appointed to play the part during this event. I am kinda unhappy about that — I think it is only fair that I should be allowed to send a stand-in too. It would have been a toss-up between sending Nero Kitty or my friend Wanda who has both nostrils pierced and who wears a stud through her tongue so that when she speaks she sounds like Elmer Fud. “Thay, isth that my stheparation check?” But, alas, it was I who showed up in person, suitably attired in my gym togs (including a sweat  band) — I was actually planning on going to the gym . . .

As I entered the conference room I passed by the waiting pool of surplus employees. We bravely saluted each other. I noticed that I was perhaps a bit overdressed. Hilary, the ex-security guard from Building One, was wearing her Kiss Me Yo Chingy tee-shirt and brown leggings and that’s it. The two fellows both wore tee-shirts that marketing gave away during the launch of the Commador 64. Despite my concern over my appearance, I walked in to the room with confidence. “Lin, thanks for coming in to meet with me today . . . I’ve got a bit of paperwork for you to sign, if you don’t mind. Let’s start with this…” I get handed a three-page form filled with check boxes all neatly checked off by my manager. “Please sign each page. It is our assurance that you agree that you do not owe the company any money.” “Ah, I have to sign a three-page document that says I do not owe anything?”  “Yes, that’s right. So, while you are signing that one tell me about you plans….are you going to take some time off?”

“I was thinking that it would be good for my family to extend the spam rations out a bit, so yes, we plan to spend the first couple of weeks of my being  jobless by piling up some debt — maybe in Florida or Hawaii better yet.”  Once I rolled my eyeballs back down from inside my head I was handed another form to sign. “By signing this form you are not releasing your nonforfeitable rights unless you have not not signed the addendum labelled Forfeiting versus Relinquishing Your Pension in its Entirety.” I asked the stand-in “What does it mean to not release nonforfeitable rights?” She gave the paper a hard stare and passed her pencil over it like a wand. “I don’t know.” I decided to sign it anyway. Hilary opened the door and peeked in . . . “ah, I have to be at mass in half an hour.”

Now we were feeling intense presssure to get me exited. I was handed my severence check and packed my stuff up to leave.  “Thanks again Linshaolin. Talk with you soon!”  “Wait” I called out, “what about the interview part of the exit interview?”  I was seriously disappointed that I was being denied  an opportunity to burn some bridges. “Damn!” Well, on to phase two: the outplacement service.

Now the “career transition” consulting services that were part of my severance package turned out to be an excellent thing, so I will give them a hearty endorsement here: Right Management provided top-notch workshops and resources for those of us ex-workers. I immersed myself in full days of resume development, interviewing practice, a session on how to get the most out of  Linkedin. I used their resource library and photocopier and computers — I dived in.  Interviewing practice was my favorite part — we sat in groups of four with one person being the interviewee. One gentleman cinched the job when asked “Why should we hire you?” His reply began “Well, I am available.” This is why we need practice.

Apart from going to Right Management for training, I spend a considerable amount of time networking and using job listings  aggregators (indeed.com). I apply to at least four jobs a day  and try to add at least three people to my Linkedin network.. I have unearthed quite a few old chums in doing so. Unfortunately most are unemployed and going after the same jobs I am. “Sure I’ll keep an eye out for you  (so I can trip you on the stairs…”) It is a cruel, cruel world.

But I am not too worried. I have Lama Sonam saying prayers for me along with my message board friends all of whom are evangelical church ladies. And, of course,  my pal Beth who is Catholic, so I am pretty covered.  Even Wanda is religious and is talking directly to God on my behalf. “Yeth, I have thinned Fawther, but I am asthking for my frwiend Linthowlin. Pleath find her a new posithin.”

Death by 5000 cuts

I found out recently that, along with 5000 others, I have “been selected to participate in a resource action because I am a surplus employee”. I have been called many things in my lifetime but “surplus” is a new one. Now, I know that many of you, if receiving the same news, would be offended by being described as surplus, but I see it as much nicer than, say, being called a worthless scumbag. It is all in how one views life. Linshaolin ever the optimist.

Well, having been delivered the news, there  are certain emotional steps that every worthless . . .  er, I mean redundant employee goes through. I am in the cleaning up my home office step. I have kept every note, presentation, handout, gift mug, and embossed certificate from thirteen years of employment at Big Corporation. This priceless collection, worthly of archiving in the corporate Knowledge Bank, now resides in five giant Hefty bags on my home office floor. Big Corporation just lost out on gaining the benefits of years of observation and analysis not to mention the fact that I was going to will it my entire estate (now worth -$1).

The next step will be to trace the news on the grapevine. It works remarkably fast. For having told only two friends about my coming departure, I was amazed to have my instant message box light up like candles on a Christmas tree. Why it is Rajnuner from the Bangelor office telling me that the entire technical support team is in tears at the news. Never had they had such a rewarding long-term relationship. My departure means such a drastic reduction in their workload that surely they too would be outsourced to China.

Next I heard from Employee Expense Accounting reminding me that I owe $1.31 for home office calls, payable before I can actually be surplus. Swiftly on their heels came Procurement telling me that the mahogany office desk and ergonomic executive chair order that I placed has been rejected. They are sending me the standard issue corrugated chipboard lap desk. I cancelled the order.

My friends are in the awkward “what do I say” phase of responding. Those who have actually acknowledged the news have expressed sorrow in a variety of ways, starting with “F#%k”, hovering around “OMG I am so sorry!” to the zenith of empathy “Oh crap I bet I am next…” Several lunch dates and a girls’ night out party have been arranged. The next few weeks, until my departure date, will be marked by a few more expressions of sympathy, a dwindling interest in my plans, and a massive upswing in the use of Microsoft Word’s resume wizard, as the layoff’s chilling effect sinks in.

My house cleaning stage will be followed by elation which in turn will be followed by depression as the reality sinks  in — the odds of a sixty-year-old woman with Parkinson’s finding a high-paying  job are — hey wait, I did not have a high-paying job before . . . so this is OK . . . finishing up my career at Trader Joe’s will be just fine! Actually, I did immediately dive right in to the job hunt, activating my network and sending out a slew of job applications. Two weeks later I have heard boo . . . I am sure all the hiring managers were off on extended Easter holidays and I will hear from them today.

My spouse (who is marginally employed as a part-time teacher) has a game plan: while we are figuring out how we are going to live on raman and altoids we will continue to go to Starbucks every day for expensive coffees. I have always admired his “face life dead on” attitude. So far his game plan alternatives are  1) moving to Spain and 2) finding a sugar daddy/mommy. I have explained to him that by definition a “sugar person” is someone older and wealthy. Since we are in our sixties that means any eligible candidates will be dead. And as far as moving to Spain is concerned, I am all for it except I have an aversion to glazed tile.

My last day at work is April 27th. In anticipation, I am taking this week off to rest up so that I have sufficient energy to fully participate in the resource action. Linshaolin will take another crack at her novel now that she has some free time. Sometimes being surplus is destiny’s way of saying “listen you worthless scumbag, Write!”

Three stars

The 1979 movie The Black Hole got three stars on my cable TV On Demand information page. Notwithstanding the fact that Maximilian Schell is a brilliant actor (albeit in some other movie) and Yvette Mimieux brought tears to my eyes as the intrepid adventurer searching for her long lost father (oh I forgot, I was chopping onions while watching) this movie warrants no more than one star.  And the one star is given solely based on the performance of Roddy McDowell playing Roddy McDowell dressed in a cheesy robot costume.

 I don’t know why I bother reading the descriptive blurbs on the scroll.  Recently I saw a blurb about a movie called Napoleon.  Being a history buff I am quite keen on Napoleon movies so I read the descriptive copy.  The word “puppy” stopped me in my tracks.  I realize that there must have been plenty of puppies running around Napoleon’s various palaces but none to my knowledge were sufficiently special to merit an entire movie.  So I did not watch.  I abandoned blurb reading and entered the male domain of channel surfing with the remote.  I was quite aggravated to click on the Napoleon movie to find out it actually was about Napoleon and not about a dog.  I watched long enough to see that they had cast a tall slim actor in the leading role.  I can suspend disbelief as much as the next gal but there is no way I can accept Sun Ming Ming in the role of the Petit Emperor — Jackie Chan maybe but not Mr. Ming Ming.

The copywriters who write the cable movie summaries sometimes get it right.  I watched a poignant and interesting film called The Band based on the blurb “when the tour bus of an Egyptian traveling band breaks down in a remote Israeli town its members are put up for the night in various households.”  You have to admit, with copy like that there is no way you are not going to make popcorn and glue yourself to the TV.  I was happily surprised to see a really first rate performance.

That same night I watched Sabrina with Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart.  I did not need to read the blurb.  I am ashamed to admit I had never seen Sabrina before but knew, of course, that it was a classic.  I am normally a fidgety movie watcher and can usually only sit still for half an hour at the most.  For both The Band and Sabrina I was riveted.  Even those Sabrina was lovely to watch and comfortably predictable, I enjoyed The Band.  The characters were not beautiful for sophisticated, the setting was scorched of any trees or grass, and the relationships were painful to watch unfold — and yet I could not get the movie out of my mind.  The copywriter gave it three stars too.

Curly hair

I remind myself of Frieda, the girl with naturally curly hair in the Peanuts comic strip.  But unlike Frieda, who was quite proud of her tassle of  red locks, I spend a goodly amount of time blow drying my hair straight and then using a curling iron to make it curly again. Huh? It really does make sense, you see, my naturally curly hair  has a mind of its own.

In every photo of me from elementary school you will view a cute little girl with something that looks like wings jutting from the sides of her head. High school pictures reveal a cute teenager with teased hair and something that looks like bat ears jutting out through the poof. In college I let my hair grown really, really long in hopes that the weight of long hair would pull down the flight devices. But no. I was a Joan Baez with two curls fighting a death match — sleek hair lost. My one period of victory over the rogue curls was when I permmed my hair into an Afro (I have previously posted about my Righteous with the Sistahs period).

When it became clear to me that I was never going to be Black, I let my perm grow so that  for awhile I had a head of wavy hair close to my scalp and  tightly permmed hair at the ends. I think I have seen that hair style in an episode of Star  Trek. These days I often let my hair “air dry” without benefit of  electrical devices. The result is a tent shaped, gently curling head of hair — I tell myself I look like Cleopatra. Oh, I guess she was long dead before she got to 60 years old. So I guess I look like Cleo’s grammy.

Now, in addition to curls I have added colors, the current one being “caramel”.  At least it was caramel. Now it is grey for the  first two inches and then it is caramel.  I think I will dye the ends red so I look like a soft ice cream.

Alien life forms encounter snow on trip to earth

I saw this on page 5 of one of Boston’s newspapers, affectionately known to locals as the Boston Glib: Sunday January 18 volunteer firefighter Rudie O’Leary made a 911 call at approximately 10:35 AM to report sighting what he called “a (expletive deleted) UFO” landing in a rural area of Westford, Massachusetts approximately a mile from the Rt. 3 exit on Interstate 95. “I was in my truck heading to North Billerica when I hear something like a helicopter was about to land on me. Scared the (expletive deleted) out of me! I pulled over and got out to see what was going on. I am telling you this straight, there was a disc shaped vehicle hovering about twenty feet above my truck. I just stayed there for awhile and then an opening appeared and a chute like the kind you see in airplane safety videos extended to the ground. At first I thought I was being like shown how to get up into the disc like they wanted me to come in. But there was no way in hell I was going into a (expletive deleted) spaceship. And I am telling you now I have laid off booze for five weeks now and was cold stone sober. But I was like stuck there. My legs did not seem to want to obey my mind which was saying ‘Run like hell you fool!’ Just then I see two figures emerge from the disc and slide down the chute.

It had just begun to snow lightly and these two things, space people, aliens I guess, paid me no attention. They was looking at the snow. They were’ntdone up in space suits neither. As far as I could tell they were buck naked except for wearing what looked like tool belts. They began to do some experiments on the old snow that had accumulated — measuring it looked like, taking samples . . . they poured some stuff on it like dippety do gel. That made the snow glow kinda yellow but nothing else. The snow had picked up and was coming down real hard by then. These two fellers (I am guessing here — they did not have you know. . .) began to get agitated like and started to swat themselves like they were being attacked by flies. One of em comes over to me and takes my new hat I just got mail order from L. L. Bean and puts it on its head. But his head is all coney shaped and the hat gets blown off easy. By then the two of em are danc’n like they was doing the hokey pokey their feet on fire or something.

I am not proud to admit I was a big chicken (expletive deleted) but I was not moving — so the snow was start’n to build up on my coat and my head, everywhere. I looked like a snowman. One of em poked at me and some of the snow fell off. They jumped back in alarm. It was getting pretty (expletive deleted) cold too — 19 degrees or something. If those buck naked fellers did have proper equipment well they would be having major shrinkage that is all I can say. Finally I got control of my normal self, and being a true patriot and willing to die for me and mine, well I picked up some snow and made me a snowball and flung it at em. Direct hit to feller number one. Kapow! Then I ran behind the truck and flung em snowballs as fast as I could make em. One of those fellers actually tried to make a snowball to retaliate but he was still swatting and got more snow on him then on me.  After about 20 minutes they was both on the chute trying to scramble up into the space ship. One would get ahead of the other and knock him off in the rush. They finally got on board and that disc closed up and took off so fast I had never seen nothing like it.”

Police investigation of the area did find evidence of a snowball fight and several places where the snow had been disturbed but no clear evidence of an alien visitation. Mr. O’Leary has signed a sworn statement to the truth of his report and the matter has been handed over to the State Department of Parks which has jurisdiction over the site where the incident allegedly took place.

Linshaolin gets new toys

My husband got me a new laptop for Christmas. It is sleek and silver with a large monitor and an unusable touch pad. Listen up people, giving a touch pad to a Parkinson’s person is like giving Jackson Pollack a paintbrush loaded with paint — all you get it artistic splatterings. Seeing that my using my new computer in its present state was impossible, my spouse wisked me off to Micro Age superstore to select a wireless mouse. Micro Age had a whole aisle of mice organized by $14.95 Crappy, $59. 95 Feature-ladened with Features you Won’t Use, and $99.95 Just What you are Looking For. Being a savvy shopper I went directly to the $99.95 section.

The newest thing seems to be Laser mice. Laser is better than whatever old mice were. It says so on the box. So I narrowed my search to the laser models. I prefer a large mouse — a large mouse provides stability and is easier for me to grasp. There was only one really big mouse and that was a Logitech Revolution.  It had lots of buttons, rollers, slider gizmos, and clickers. I will use one of them. We had been looking for about a minute when a young sales associate suddenly appeared. I asked if a particular mouse with compatible with Vista. He assured me it was. I asked why that was not listed on the packaging when it was listed on other mice. He had the good grace to blush and went off to check. He did not return. A minute later a second sales associate arrived. I asked the same question. He say “Oh, not unless it is listed on the requirements and this one is not.” He then swooped down to the $99.95 section and pointed to the one mouse I had had my eye on. “This is what you want. It is the best.” As soon as it looked like we would buy it he slapped a label on it and left.

Then I remembered I’d need a mouse pad and selected the largest one they had. On my way to the check out a third sales associate materialized and slapped a sticker on the mouse pad. Clearly commission was involved in this labeling business. Finally I made it to the check out line, which was at least ten people long. We were corraled into a roped off line, with racks of merchandize on either side. This was impulse mechandise of the most alluring kind. There were breath mints shapped like CDs, pens shapped like pens, CD cases, maps of New England, a refridgerated case of soft drinks and ice cream bars (it was 14 degrees outside so the cold treats were being skipped over). I grabbed a bottled water and an Eskimo Pie — I felt sorry for the cold treats. I also picked up a bumper sticker that said “My hard drive is bigger than your hard drive.” Hubby  made me put it back.

SAD

Starting at about this time of year many people suffer from low-grade depression caused by the lack of daylight and the cold, dreary winter months — this reaction to winter is called “seasonal affective disorder.”  Better known as SAD, it has become the disorder of choice amongst the college age population.  Households all over the northern hemisphere are hearing the same conversation: “I went to the infirmary at school and the doctor said I look anemic and I need to go to (fill in the blank with your choice of the British Virgin Islands, California, Bermuda, Mexico, Hawaii) for maximum sunlight.” “Oh, when I called the infirmary I heard something different — would you like to tell me what the doctor really said?”  “Well, the doctor did say I need more light.”  “I think the doctor actually said that if you broke the hermetic seal between your lips and the lips of that girl who giggles in the background every time I call, you could get outside once in awhile for fresh air and sunshine.”  You would think that the discussion would end there, but no — the drive to go on a winter break is too great to be squashed by mere parental reasoning.

 In addition to the future leaders of the world, SAD primarily affects middle-management.  It tends to strike immediately after performance review time when the middle manager has been informed that for the third year in a row their placement in the salary grid means that they won’t be getting a raise.  And if that were not bad enough, the following week middle managers receive the e-mail giving them a script to follow when informing their employees that the free coffee and yogurt are being eliminated, to be replaced by motivational posters in the lunchroom.  Suddenly dark shadows replace the sun that had been dappling on the snowbanks, the snowbanks turned to freezing gray slush, and the only birds that can be seen are roadkill.

My 24 year old daughter, currently unemployed, has informed me that she is going to California in February because she has SAD.  She will stay with her friend so her only expenses will be the airplane ticket, the cab ride to the airport, the cab ride to her friend’s apartment, the cab ride to dinner, the cab ride back from dinner, the $300 for “entertainment”, the cab ride back to the airport, the five dollar package of airport cheese and crackers, and the cab ride back home.  When I inquired whether she has sufficient funds for this trip she gives me the look that says “Mom, you are such a downer.”  I hate to be a downer, but I have SAD too. My doctor told me that unless I go to a tropical Club Med I would suffer from slow thyroid, weight gain, adult acne, and I would not get a raise.  Certainly I must honor my body and not allow such horrible things to afflict me!

When I told my husband about the recommended cure he went out and bought me a sun lamp.  He still doesn’t understand why instead of being appreciative I stormed out of the room and sulked for the rest of the day.  I attribute my bad behavior to SAD.  I am not responsible.  Once I am in a lounge chair by the pool with the piña colada I will be a new woman.

Father Time takes an Ambien

At least three people today asked me what I was doing  on New Year’s Eve. They all looked at me with excited anticipation — thinking that for sure  Linshaolin would  be a party gal.  Oh, and rest assured that I am. In fact I beat my all-time party going record this  year, chalking up four (and a half) parties. My husband says that the two held by my shrink’s secretarial staff don’t count since I was  forced to go to those or get booked for a year’s worth of appointments at 6:45 AM. I count the half party — I did get dressed and show up. It was the wrong day and Bob and Marion were having a screeching fight which ended abruptly when I  rang the doorbell. Marion snorfed  up a trembling sigh as I  handed her the hostess gift: a funny book about married couples having affairs. Bob was not his usual witty self so after a few drinks I said I had a headache and needed to go home.

But I am getting far away from New Year’s Eve. When I was a kid my brother and I loved New Year’s Eve. My folks always had huge drunken parties during which all of the party goers  passed out leaving sweet pickens for the kids. We did a first pass collecting all the cigarettes and then a second pass in which we drank the remnants of the cocktails, especially savoring the olives. We had a contest to see who could collect the most toothpicks. Brother and I would get raging drunk and throw up. Those were the days.

As a teen New Year’s Eve continued to be  marked by drinking. However, since every night was marked by drinking, this was nothing  special. What made the night special was the annual Boyfriend Shuffle. The girls, generally in pajama party mode, would gossip about their rotten  boyfriends while downing rum and coke (I still gag when thinking about rum and coke). After thoroughly trashing the guys, we would write their names on little torn bits of paper and put them in a  bag. Each girl had to draw a name — and whoever she drew was her boyfriend  for the entire month of January. This lead, by around January 3rd, to intense jealous fighting, name calling, and slanderous accusations amongst the girls. We loved it. There is not  much to do in rural New York State.

My early marriage sealed things for me. Hubby is about as much a gadabout as Gandhi. His idea of a great New Year’s Eve is to watch  Johnny Carson reruns and watch the ball drop in Times Square from the comfort of his recliner. After trying for many years to get him to at least uncork a bottle of bubbly I gave up. Now I am asleep by 10:30. I tell my spouse to wake me at midnight  to celebrate  and he does. I roll over with a  “wha? haum…gnight.”  However, once (and I am not making this up) we were invited to a newly divorced friend’s house for a party and Hubby actually accepted the invitation. I was so delirious with joy at our new found social adventure that I bought a new bra. We got decked out and fully supported. Then we agreed that it would not do to arrive early so we should just lie down for a few minutes so we would arrive well rested. We awoke the next morning.

I don’t expect much to be different this year. My husband and I will dissect the past year over dinner (an elegant meal of salami and cheese on rye), toast the New Year with Diet Dr. Pepper around eight o’clock. We will retire to our separate home offices to write for a bit and then hit the hay by eleven. No doubt I will be overstimulated by all this excitement and will have to take an Ambien.

Facebook

Facebook found me. It took them 59 1/2 years but with their mighty Friend Finder they found me. All this time I thought Facebook was for kids — kids have jillions of free hours to waste. They are young. They are Web savvy. They know no fear. Perfect targets for social networking. I am old and crabby. I value my precious time. I still can’t navigate a simple Web site. And yet I must check in at least twice a day to see what my ranking in “Best Person on the Web” is or how many virtual cocktails my friends have sent me. I thought that I had invented virtual drinking  but clearly some twenty-three year old entrepreneur found the money train before I did.

My friend Judy sent me an email saying that I could view her recent family photos if I went to Facebook — she sent the URL to her album. I clicked and was taken to a log-in page. I learned long ago that registering for anything would mean that the volume of my junk mail would grow exponentially. However since I already received more junk mail in one week than was delivered by the USPS in all of 1997 I figured “what the  hell!”

It took me a good long while to get familiar with the interface. And before I really had it nailed down I discovered Beta Bingo. And Scrabble. And Super Slot Machines. All my lifelong hard work and spartan living went out the door in one frenzied evening trying to find ways to con Facebook into giving me more free credits for Bingo. While my family gathered for our traditional family hours I was absent. When my brother, who I have not seen in six months, dropped by I excused myself. I was hooked on Facebook. If I received fewer than eleven virtual hugs, beers, flair, or Tibetan Buddhist images then I felt like a failure. My worth as a human being was directly correlated with how many Friends I had. Anyone, no matter how remote the connection got friended. When I saw that my friend Mary had over 500 friends I shook my head in disgust with myself. I was a Facebook loser.

But not really. None of my friends is friends with a statue. I am. None of my friends has developed an application on Facebook. I have. None of my friends receives a daily email from the Dali Lama. I do. I received so many virtual Christmas ornaments that my virtual tree fell over. I have been sent so many Facebook hugs that I have had to take out a restraining order. And I get to use on my Profile page that one nice photo of me that makes me look pleasant.

My husband joined Facebook out of self-defense. But he won’t click on anything so he never receives the virtual philosophy texts I send him nor the virtual . . . well, anyway, he is friends with me and his old tennis teacher. That’s it. I tried to set up a Scrabble game with him but he could not figure out when it was his turn to play. I even “nudged” him from time to time but no triple words scores were forthcoming. He just is not with it. With all those hip young guys out there trying to friend me you think he would invest just a little bit more effort.

The one Facebook thing that I still don’t understand is “poking”. Every once in awhile I get poked. Along with the poking comes an invitation to “poke back”. So if I poke back what happens? Does the original poker poke again? Does it become a mindless and endless poke, poke back nightmare? Death by Facebook poking? Or at minimum serious injury. I can just picture House looking at the poked patient. “Bruising consistent with systematic virtual pugalism. This is a case of machinamalpocia. Call the CDC.”

I am happy to report that I have been getting closer to conquring my addiction. After winning all the prizes in Level One of Super Scratch Cards my interest wained. How many virtual sets of ginzo knives does a girl need?

More Cognitive Behavioral Therapy

My shrink is having me keep a spreadsheet record of thirty one behavioral factors that are contributors to my psychological state — things like “general mood” and “level of exercise”.  When I have my weekly session we will go over my chart to look for trends. I am supposed  to use a scale of one through ten with ten being good and one being lousey. So if I am feeling depressed we can look at the chart and my therapist will say ”Wow, you scored only a three on “impact of your adolescent child on your mood” for five consequtive days! What has been going on?” Hello, we do not need a doctorate here. Do the words “adolescent child” have meaning to you? Of course I am depressed.

I have some personal favorites among the thirty-one factors: Irritability is one. Since I am using Excel for my chart I have pre-filled out this factor for the week by typing a zero in the first cell and dragging it across the cells for a week. In fact, I did this for Self-Control and Bad Attitude and if truth be told, for several others as well. I admit that some days I might get up to a 1.25 in Self-Control but it is not worth the effort to type into a cell.

Now I am close to my therapist and I tell him lots of stuff I don’t tell anyone else but I am not about to reveal my day to day feeling with regard to sex. Lets see, on Monday I attacked my husband and dragged him my what is left of his hair into the bedroom. Hmmm. Tuesday I informed my husband that I had taken a vow of celibacy. Wednesday I received my NetFlix rental of “The Chipendale Dancers: a Retrospective”. Thursday I could not get the words “Close your eyes and think of England” out of my head. Friday I rented from pay TV a movie called Pirates of Thong Island — I swear I thought it was an old Linda Darnell movie. So for row seventeen of my spreadsheet I have put in five in every cell. I figured I am supposed to be following The Middle Way in any case.

After the sex question the next most obnoxiously probing is the food question. Neutrally stated as Appetite for Food, this is a trick question. Since I am Queen Sized I am not sure if answering with a nine is a good thing. “Oh yes, my appetite was just fine last week.” “No kidding, Lin, I have had to reinforce my client chair three times since you started therapy. If I answer with a three (which I interpret to mean I was not interested in food), my therapist will say “Lin, why do you persist in having these unrealistic images of yourself?” So five across the board it is.

Reviewing my chart for the week I see that I have answered five to all but four questions. The row for Concentration is only partially filled out. The row for Anxiety has some holes in it where I repeatedly poked my pencil through the paper. And the last row on the spreadsheet, Level of Burnout, is empty. I guess I must have burned out on the chart before I got to it.

Are you entitled?

I am a considerate person. I like to help others. I obey the law. Even misdemeanors are repugnant to me. If people are waiting to park and the lot is jammed I will try to be quick about leaving. But when I am sitting in my car in Macy’s parking lot eating a cup of low fat frozen yogurt I will not “speed it up” and wolf down my treat just because you want my parking space. And if you repeatedly honk at me, when I am finished with my cup of frozen yogurt I will get out of my car, slowly walk to the trash bin, toss my cup, amble back to my car, get in, grab my ever ready novel and have a nice afternoon read until you go away. If you decide to engage me with verbal abuse and digital gesturing, I will ignore you. You are not entitled to this parking space. There is one just two cars down that will do you nicely.

I never cease to be amazed by people who feel entitled — some of the worst are those who drive down the breakdown lane so that they don’t have to stand in bumper-to-bumper traffic leading up to the exit then edge their way into the front of the line. I am quite sure they think that those who wait their turn are saps. Then there are the older ladies who chat with you pleasantly at the bus stop but as soon as the bus pulls up they stampede to get on first, brandishing lethal canes and walkers like they were G-force nunchukus. No matter that you were just exchanging recipes, you are now the obstacle to be overpowered, overcome. If they get on board and there are no vacant seats they will glare at some poor stooge at the front of the bus and start nudging him with the cane, muttering “make way for the elderly! Give me that seat!” I have even seen skinheads blush under the shaming eyes of grandma. 

I was at Whole Foods market recently where the upper crust of metropolitan Boston goes on Saturday mornings to stuff themselves with food samples thus saving themselves the humiliation of going to get an egg mcsandwich. One fellow, carrying a Tumi man purse, was standing in front of a plate of cheese samples eating one after the other. I watched as he then went over to the fig jam on crackers sample station and took the entire plate of samples and brought it back to the cheese station. Now fully stocked with the making for fig and cheese on crackers he proceeded to eat everything. A small crowd formed around him watching. There was a hostile murmur of “tut-tutting”. He was  unfazed and as he left the crowd dispersed, many of them placing jars of fig jam in their carts.

And, of course, there is my favorite act of entitlement, the single person driving the eco-poisonous mother SUV to the convenience store to get a pack of ciggies. What possible justification is there for that scenario? I have heard the “because it is safer” argument. Yeah, sure it is safer for you but if you hit  me you will turn my Corolla into an accordian and me into a corpse. I have heard the “I have to haul a lot of stuff” argument. That’s right, you can really load those babies up at Costco once a month.

I leave to last the litterer in all his/her manifestations. There is the “toss it out the car window” litterer, may you rot in hell. The species of Starbucks drinker who empties the overflow coffee into the trash receptacle to make room for milk. This makes a stinky, soggy, profound mess when it comes time to change the trash liner. Have they never learned the lingo — “half caf decaf with a shot and two rooms”? Then the spit out the gum on the ground litterer — these people have personality disorders — I hope they are in treatment. And finally, the family members who leave a trail of used napkins, Popsicle sicks, cans of diet coke, overflowing ash trays, socks, and unopened mail throughout the living room. For some strange reason there is a persistent belief that there is a maid employed in the house.

What’s in your stocking?

One of the nice things about being a Buddhist is that you can still celebrate Christmas. I checked this out very thoroughly and it is A-OK to wish Jesus a Happy Birthday and to rake in some goodies while you are at it.  As far as goodies are concerned, it is tradition in my family to hang three Christmas stocking from the fireplace mantle and stuff them full of wonderful things.

I made the stockings a couple of years ago. I had taken a one-day class at the quilt shop in which we learned how to make stockings out of strips of holiday themed cotton fabric. As is typical of me and did not stop at making just one. No. In fact, after making about two dozen, my husband had to wrest me from the sewing machine with promises of a trip to someplace warm and sunny (we went to the tanning booth at Glow ‘n the Dark).

Once my manic episode calmed down we each selected our favorite stocking and hung it from the little knob that opens and closes the flue. We then built a roaring fire. As smoke filled the house we realized that the weight of the stockings had closed the flue — hubby braved the eye-burning inferno and opened the flue and all the windows. Meanwhile I stood on the curb explaining to the fire officials that all was well. The fire captain was looking at me with that “I’ve seen that woman before” look. I felt no need to remind him that we had met at my previous home after he had retrieved the charred Stouffers Lean Cuisine from what had been my oven.

When we were allowed back in to the house we settled down to begin our tradition. We stuffed each stocking with little presents and festive candies. We are allowed to open the gifts in the stockings on Christmas Eve. This is what I received last year: a candy cane, an IOU for bringing me coffee in bed from my daughter, an IOU for fixing the dishwasher from my husband, a can of Friskies Whitefish Medley from Nero Wolf Kitty.

My husband received: a Sopresata Salami log, a CD of Scottish fiddle music, an IOU for holding the level while my husband hangs pictures from our daughter, and a laser-pointer cat toy from Nero Wolf Kitty. Alli, who had been a very good girl that year, received: a twenty-four thousand dollar gift certificate to Anthropologie so she could buy one outfit, the book entitled Life after an Art Degree: Confessions of a Barrista, and a hairball from Nero Wolf Kitty.

We were all thrilled and had a lovely evening savouring our family closeness. Each year since then we have happily stuffed the stockings, always trying to outdo the gift from the year before. This year my husband is getting “C” batteries and a packet of picture hangers and Alli is getting a set of flavored lip balms tasting like durian. Nero Wolf Kitty is getting the empty roll of Christmas ribbon.

What are you getting in your stocking?

Word Games

I am terrible at word games. In forty years of marriage I have beaten my husband once at Scrabble. I stink at Boggle and Word Twist defeats me. This failing is odd given that I am a writer and have a fair sized vocabulary at my command. But put me in competition and I go blanker than Sarah Palin upon being asked to name the members of NAFTA. Ah, that would be Nigeria, Africa, Tibet, and America…right? Huh, right? Sometimes I lose points just because I can not spell the words I do remember. It is seriously embarrassing not to know how to spell.

My daughter informed me at the Thanksgiving dinner table that the two most looked-up words in the Merriam Webster Dictionary this year were “quantum” and “solace” — I guess folks were having a hard time understanding the razor sharp dialog of the new James Bond movie. Or perhaps this is urban legend. The movie did not come out until late in the year. I don’t believe for a minute that the population has that much interest in units of measurement in space. Solace I can understand — we are all hurting from the recession and are finding solace in each of our own unique ways. Booze, comfort food, raising poi.

I have been playing Scrabble on Facebook with my buddies. They threw me a curve ball be laying down the letters for “axion” — hey, I object! There is no word “axion” I challenged. Well, dagnabbit there so is. It just happens to be a hypothetical subatomic particle or something like that. Billions of them go into making a quantum. I find solace by acknowledging that I have now added another word to my extensive repertoire. My friends cheat. They use words like Jo and nae. If we are allowed to use words from previous versions of the English language (like from Chaucer) then they sould accept my “nonce” and “smythe”.

I made up a nifty little word game to share with my Internet buddies. We are all gaga about handbags and make-up, so I suggested to try to combine words from the Crime lexicon with words from the Handbag or Make-up vocabulary. I started it out with Purloined Prada and St. Valentine’s Day Mascara. My favorite handbag entry was Knockoff. Kudos, my friends are brilliant. I suggest you try this game on your trip to Grandma’s house for the holidays.

Speaking of language, I am progressing in my Tibetan lessons. I was quite interested in learning that many  letters in Tibetan are also words. I wondered if this were unique to Tibet but yesterday I went to the Museum of Fine Arts exhibition called Assyria. There I learned that the ancient Assyrians also used an alphabet in which a letter could either be a letter or a word. That got me thinking about English. The only examples of this I could come up with are the letter “a” — it can either be the letter “a” as in “candy” or the word (article) “a” connoting singleness — and the letter “i” (also connoting singleness). Write to me if you can come up with others.

I do not feel too bad about my lack of competitive spirit in word games. No one has yet to beat me in Battleship!

Some Enchanting Evening

Tibetan Buddhist chanting is noted for the resonant deep voices of the Tibetan Chant Masters. My own lama can draw one deeply into meditation with his – it is like distant thunder rolling, a harbinger of the sound of heavy rain mesmerizing as one wakens. When the lama leads the chants my own voice is lost in the joined force of the practitioners. But last night the lama was traveling and the assembly consisted of women only. The chanting took on an entirely different and very beautiful sound. But my voice was discordant — it was low and gravely, qualities hidden at previous practices by the male chanters.

All my life I had a fair contralto voice — nothing to draw attention to but certainly very feminine. But now, no matter how I tried to raise my voice to a higher octave nothing but deep sounds came out. I knew in an instant what was happening — Parkinson’s was beginning to rob me of my voice. How long would it be before all I could do was whisper my Buddhist prayers instead of joining in the beautiful sounds of chanting? As we sat on our mats chanting I felt a level of distress far greater than I felt when first diagnosed. To lose one’s voice is to become shut off from the ease and pleasure of communication — it would bring isolation. I felt a tear on my cheek and then I heard the women chanting “and if I become sick, let me become sick and I will be happy. May this sickness purify my negative karma and the sickness of all sentient beings.”

I had often chanted this prayer but not until last night did I really understand that we must free ourselves from both hope and fear and live for the moment, letting go of suffering. Losing the sweet, high quality of my voice was giving me an opportunity. I was beginning to sound like those venerable monks, the Master Chanters, who make the most enchanting sound in the world.

Butterballs, gelatenous cannberry, squash pie, and fruitcake…

Here come the holidays — Christmas, Rohatsu, Hanukkah, Kwanza, Bonza Bottler Day! So many occasions on which to blow the diet in the spirit of there is always next year. I have started early this year thanks to Trader Joes. TJs is already stocked with Italian Panetone and German Marzipan Stollen, priced ridiculously low. It would be so very wrong not to take advantage of their largess. Yes, I know, all you food threateners, their largess will go directly to my hips and increase my largess rather dramatically between now and New Year’s Day.

But not to worry. Most holiday food is only good for one taste. Does anyone really like canned cranberry gel? I admit it does get better when wedged into a sandwich with leftover turkey and stuffing. But do you ever buy the stuff in July? I think not. And what about the concept of a pie made from a vegetable? A squash no less. No amount of mashing, evaporated milk or spice is going to change this into a pecan pie. It is just an excuse to use your pastry bags with decorator tips.

Tomorrow Nero Kitty and I are going to start cooking for Thanksgiving dinner. Spreading the event over two days is a good idea. That way you can be exhausted for two days instead of just one. We are going to prepare the candied yams (another annual squash extreme sport), potatoes au gratin (the recipe swears it is the best ever), and apple crumble. Normally the Daughter and the Husband make Thanksgiving dinner so that the Mother can rest her carcass for one day out of the year — but not so this year. Both have the flu. Having the flu guarantees they will not be able to taste anything. So why am I going to all this trouble?

When I was a kid we went to Chinatown for Thanksgiving dinner. When we moved to Virginia where they had never heard of China we went to the buffet at Seven Corners and slid our trays along the railings loading up with fried okra and fried chicken. Now that was something to give thanks for! When my family was considering moving back to the Northeast we hotly debated whether my father’s continuing employment was worth giving up the buffet.  So back to Ye Hong Guey’s for the holidays.

Thanksgiving day not only marks the official beginning of the holiday season, it also marks when it is socially acceptable to offer guests who you wish would hurry up and leave egg nog and fruitcake. If emotional states had food definitions “passive aggressive” would be defined by these two holiday delectibles. We always buy a quart of egg nog at the grocery store and pour out an inch or so for the holiday toast. Then the carton migrates its way to the back of the fridge until February when you do your annual fridge cleaning. It is remarkable that the consistency of egg nog does not change with rancidity. It glops down the drain just as it glopped into the toasting glasses. Yum.

Now fruitcake has a bad rap — it is the subject of many jokes and much ridicule. This is hardly fair. There is a town in Texas whose whole economy depends on siblings sending each other fruitcakes. They pack them first in a corrugated paper wrapper so that the fruitcake does not ooze currents; then it is shrinkwrapped in a plastic substance discovered in Area 51; finally it is put in tins festively decorated with charming scenes of undiverse people from an age gone by. When UPS arrives at your door with the unmistakable square box that is heavy for its size, you just know that you have been fruitcaked.

My mother sent her family members fruitcakes every year. No matter that they had not spoken to each other since the University of Witchita lost to Bowling Green in 1953. Never the poor sportman, Mom sent out the peace pipe annually with love from the Texas Fruitcake Emporium. This year I will have to determine whether fruitcake is vegan. I can hardly give my new Buddhist friends a meat fruitcake. Speaking of Buddhist, since I am newly converted I must brush up on the Buddhist holiday traditions. But please note, I still am accepting Christmas gifts, homemade fudge, and sides of baby back ribs.

On to December with its rich inventory of special foods. Starting with the Candy Cane — if these things are so delicious, why then do we find them amidst our clutter drawer, stored ornaments, and adhering to the underside of the childrens’ table?

People who dress their cats and other oddballs

I enjoy Web surfing and once in awhile land on a delectible example of Man’s genius or, more often, Man’s madness. Last night I arrived on the shores of Japan at a site dedicated to the sale of clothes for cats. There were dozens of outfits to chose from, all modeled by a cat who was either extraordinarily tolerant of humiliation or was drugged up his gizmo. The glassy eyed feline sported Little Red Riding Hood apparel, Biker Kitty outfits, bathing suits, track suits, outfits for church, and several leisure suits last fashionable for humans in the 1970s.

This was a well-designed site, reflecting either a brisk business or was the hobby of a wealthy and eccentric Japanese kitty fanatic. Speaking of kitty fanatics, I showed the site to Nero Kitty who proceeded to barf violently on the oriental rug (I do not make these things up). In psychotherapy they would call vomiting on an oriental rug transference – unable to vent spleen at the real culprit (a Japanese firm), one transfers one’s literal bile to a symbolic representation — to whit, the rug. Nero Kitty is just amazingly complex.

Nero Kitty has been a bit of a pain recently. At 3:00 AM precisely he climbs in bed with me and stretches out his 14 lb bulk across my bottom and begins to slowly and rhythmically expand and retract his claws into my derrier. Initially the pain is bearable. I do a half-hearted wiggle in  hopes of dislodging the cat. This only produces a deeper digging in. I believe that the ancient oriental torture technique called “One Thousand Cuts” was implemented by tieing the victim down and then uncrating two or three Siamese kitties on the poor sod’s naked carcass. Nero’s aim is to get me up so that I will go downstairs and fill his food dish up with Friskies and replace the old water with fresh ice water (with two cubes thank you).

Alas this morning I discovered that we were out of cans of Friskies and only had dry cat chow left. I was thanked for this oversight in food management by having my in-progress bead work tail swooshed onto the hardwood floor. I was at the CVS drug store at 8:00 AM for opening, hunting for Friskies. Now being compelled to go to the CVS, I decided to make the best of the trip by wandering down the aisles. I came upon the leftover Halloween candy — 90% off. Oh yum! NOT. While candy corn on October 1st is highly desirable and compulsively delicious, on November 17th it is repulsive. Apart from the candy corn there were only two other types of candy remaining: Hershey’s kisses made to look like candy corn (so also repulsive by association) and big bags of what (I swear) looked like purple condoms.

Having safe sex on Halloween is a good idea but from the number of bags of purple condoms remaining it seems we will be having a population boom sometime in August. I studied the packaging. “Scare your friends with Tongue Phooey!” This marketing copy did not do much to enlighten me. I read on. “Purple, black, or orange — be prepared to stick it and run!” Wow! This hit a new — I dared not let my imagination take flight. Marketing condoms this way seemed irresponsible to me. While I was standing there blocking access to the 90% off candy, a couple of pretweens elbowed their way to the front and grabbed six or seven bags of the Tongue Phooeys. I was shocked and began to look around for sales help, the police, anybody. One of the children ripped open a bag and unsealed a purple Phooey from its cellophanae wrapper — and stuck his tongue into it! Then he had the audacity to stick his purple tongue out at me! The kids laughed hysterically and ran away down the aisle. Light began to dawn slowly — Linshaolin had never seen tongue disguises before. . .

In the excitement I forgot the reason I had gone to the CVS in the first place and returned home without the Friskies. Nero met me at the door with frantic stropping. But he soon sensed my guilt and backed up, hairs prickling. I did not like the look he was giving me so I tried  to appease him. “Would my sweet boy like a little treat instead of brekkies? Huh? Yes, I know you would. Mommy brought you a little toy.” Nero played with the Tongue Phooey for a good half hour before tracking me down for food.

Have a buddhaful day! :-)

I converted to Buddhism by accident really. For several years I had been studying and exploring various aspects of the religion, so when I received an email stating that the Tibetan Buddhist Meditation Center (which I had been attending regularly) was holding a retreat I decided to go. The agenda specified that those who wished to become Buddhist should arrive at 9:00 AM for refuge with the lama. Well, I certainly was on the path to becoming a Buddhist given all the time I had spent studying and the sound of “refuge” with the lama sounded nice (I was sure tea would be served) so, as requested, I arrived at 9:00 AM.

There were about twelve people in the small meditation room in front of the magnificent gilded statue of Jowo Rinpoche. The lama sat in front of us and lead the usual meditation and chanting. He was assisted by a female translator and an assistant lama. The translator spoke: “All those wishing to become Buddhists please rise.” I stood up along with about eight others. It was then that the first rays of light dawned on my slow brain. “Ah, I think he means right now — convert to Buddhism now!” I worried — was I ready? I decided I was ready as I ever would be.

The Refuge Ceremony consists of prostrating oneself before the Buddha three times. I am handicapped so this was no easy task for me. I akwardly managed one prostration, kneeling and stretching forward so that my forhead touched the floor. I struggled to stand up and began my second prostration. The assistant lama stopped me — I thought I had failed! But he spoke to the lama in Tibetan than looked to the translator. She said to me “You are excused from physical prostration — you may visualize the rest.” With great relief I closed my eyes and pictured a balletic and perfect prostration.

After the prostrations each person had to repeat three times the words “I seek refuge in the Buddha, I seek refuge in the dharma,  I seek refuge in the sangha” (Buddha, teachings, community). And then, for each person, the lama thought carefully and bestowed a Buddhist name. Mine was Konchok Jowo Dolma (Precious Noble Tara) — I was thrilled because Tara is my favorite of the deities. I was quite pumped up, my joy only slightly moderated by my knowledge that while in Tibetan Dolma meant Tara, in Greek it means stuffed grape leaf… I thanked the lama for my name, was given a certificate  with my name inscribed and a couple of cards elaborately decorated with pictures of the deities.

We ended the ceremony with tea (ah yes I knew there would be tea) and candies and cookies (I have never been to a Tibetan gathering that did not have sweets). The new Buddhists gathered together to talk about their new names (it was very anti-Buddhist of me to be thankful I was not given the name “Karma Dharma”  or “noble fruit tree”). For awhile I stood apart from the gathering looking into the shrine room at the statue of the Buddha. When I started my quest I would never have dreamed that I would end up here — in a branch and lineage of Buddhism that goes back unbroken to the eleventh century. The words “for the benefit of all sentient beings” kept going through my mind. It felt right.

Turn back corner hold here

It is not the fact that the worldwide economy is in the dumpster, nor the fact that the presidential debates left us with all the pundits saying that McCain won but all the people on the street overwhelmingly thinking that Obama won — what really gets me is the fact that I, a college graduate, with almost 60 years experience, cannot successfully follow the instructions for unwrapping a Hershey bar.  Yes, I said instructions.  You probably just grab a Hershey’s with almonds bar and tear it open, totally oblivious to the efforts that the Hershey Company went to to inform us of the ideal bar disrobing technique. 

Don’t be tempted to get a Hershey bar out of last year’s Halloween leftovers — I think that the move toward including instructions is new.  It is probably fallout from the lawsuit brought against a leading fast food restaurant that now makes all fast food restaurants label their Styrofoam cups with the warning “This coffee is hot moron.” A similar regard for the American population’s intelligence  led to the decision to mark one end of the chocolate bar packaging with the words “turn back this corner”.  After you have spent half an hour trying to pry the little flap away from the rest of the packaging you are rewarded with more instructions — “hold here”.  So you gingerly clasp the candy bar wrapper between your thumb and pointer finger over the words “hold here” and wonder what to do next.  Regrettably there are no further instructions so you stand with a candy bar dangling from your pinched digits and curse the entire population of York County Pennsylvania.

Some of us are way intelligent and intuitively know that dangling a candy bar won’t get you any satisfaction.  We attack the plastic coated paper wrapper with a vengeance — it does not budge.  We use the old cracking the candy bar against the side of the table technique.  We hear the candy bar break but the packaging remains intact.  Unwilling to put the candy bar in the refrigerator next to the take-out container that you couldn’t open last night, you grab scissors and make a clean cut right through the words “hold here”.  You upend the candy bar in an attempt to shake the bar out of the packaging.  After a minute you pick up the scissors again and as you are swearing “you stupid, effing, candy bar”, you slash and cut the wrapper into a dozen pieces which fall to the floor like the last of the 300.

You should have noticed, before deciding to be Xerxes about it, that the wrapper contained an image of two almonds. You hate almonds and the Hershey Company does not skimp on almonds. The secret hiding place at the back of the pantry is bare — so it is either eat around at the almonds or eat the coating off the Jordan Almonds in the guest room’s candy dish. Make a note to yourself to discuss candy selection with your significant other — after 40 years it should be clear that you do not like almonds.  Never mind that you have never noticed that every time you order Chinese food you get Hunan beef which your significant other never eats.  We are above tit for tat after all.  So, get in the car and drive to the supermarket and get plain chocolate and then drive to the Chinese food restaurant and get orange flavored chicken and crab Rangoon.

Report from the Executive Lounge

When traveling on business there are only a few opportunities to absorb the local culture and history. Hanging out in the hotel’s executive lounge is not one of them. There you meet all the other rolling luggage draggers and laptop junkies who are dressed just the same as you and who are all still wearing their ID badges dangling from cheap chains around their necks. You just know that at least 28% of them wear their badges to bed. We exchange quick pleasantries then tackle the real reason for our uncharacteristic sociability — free wine and snacks.

Dale, the concierge, remembers that I drink rose wine even though I appear only every couple of months. He remembers I like a well-toasted english muffin for breakfast. Dale is the reason I stay at this hotel. Even my husband doesn’t remember that I like a well-toasted english muffin. If push came to shove it would be a tough choice deciding who I would like to elope with — my therapist or Dale… It would probably be Dale — my therapist is paid to look like he is paying attention to my every word. All Dale wants is my charming companionship and a decent tip at the end of my stay. I don’t mind that Dale is fickle. He gives me wine to take back to my room.

My favorite lounge activity is watching fellow Big Corporation business travelers meet and hook up for the evening (hour, week, day, forever…). “Hi, I see from your badge that you also work for Mr. Big.” “Oh hi there, sure do…Raleigh office. How about you?” “Well, now that I see what Raleigh has to offer I am definitely going to transfer there. Heh heh. But for the time being I am stuck in Minsk.” “Minsk? Oh then you must be in Global Customer Accounts. Right?” “Yep, bill by the hour every hour…heh heh…” It is endlessly fascinating.

This morning I spent a good ten minutes while drinking my coffee watching Dale dice cantelope and oranges. What compelled me to watch was the fact that as Dale peeled and seeded he put the pits and peels in a blender bowl. I could not leave for my 7 AM meeting until I found out if Dale was going to  discard the finely diced fruit and blend the fruit trash into a smoothie or what. I was horrified when he did neither — he served the fruit and put the blender under the counter behind a curtain. RATS! He was going to blend it later I am just positive! Dale used to run a horse farm. This must have something to do with it.

Dale has been training the new crop of hotel managers in the art of conciergeness. Apparently the younger generation has no appreciation for customer satisfaction. Dale is not pleased. I agree — here is an example. When I checked in the young manager at the counter said, “Ah Ms Shaolin, I see you like to have a magnifying mirror in your room. Well, I have no idea which room has a magnifying mirror so I guessed. I hope you like the room.” Yes, son, going that extra mile for your customer just fills me with hope for mankind. As John McCain says, “sometimes things happen.”

Tomorrow I will miss the evening wine and cheese social hour since I will be going to the Buddhist meditation practice in town. Buddhists are not supposed to drink intoxicants anyway so I will be sparing myself some bad karma. Dale, who was unable to refrain from rolling his eyes when he saw me reading “The Heart of Buddha’s Teachings” will politely inquire about my absence. Will I tell him that I was being religious or shall I make up a story about having to fly out for the day to go moose hunting with Sarah Palin?

Note to self — smileys and other career limiting activities

Note to self: in the future refrain from importing unknown smileys into your executive presentations without first doing a careful animation check. That static happy face may, after a few seconds of good behaviour, suddenly lift its shirt and flap boobs at you (and the executives).

If, during working hours, you absolutely must know what a deluxe French massage is, take the following steps: turn off the volume on your computer, turn your monitor to face away from the cube opening, refrain from shouting out OMfrick’nG!

If you are multitasking and simultaneously preparing a broadcast email about business operations role groups while putting together your monthly Borg fan club newsletter mailing, pay attention when using the Group address feature — resistance is futile.

The teleconference leader has just finished a long-winded introduction before your speech, giving away most of your key points. Remember that the Mute Off button is right next to the Off button on your speaker phone. “And so, I turn the meeting over to Lin. Lin? Are you there? Lin, if your are on mute… Lin?”

When wishing to mute your phone for the purpose of ungracious gossip or disparaging remarks, ensure you press the mute button forcefully once– unlike the street light which changes much faster with multiple pressings, multiple pressings merely unmutes the phone. “Roy…mute…such an ass…mute…listen to him go on and on…mute”

Refrain from ending your emails with a signature line that says “All donations gratefully accepted.”

Costco

“Ev’rything free in America, for a small fee in America!” — Stephen Sondheim’s great lyrics from Westside Story perfectly capture how I felt this afternoon as I plunked down fifty bucks for the privilege of shopping in bulk for stuff I don’t need from a crowded warehouse. I was renewing my membership in Costco, having just spent the past year wolfing down Boursin and tubs of humus bought  by the caseload. Buy in bulk, save money. But what family of three (plus one enormous cat) needs sixteen 32 oz bottles of ketchup? Will a thirty-two pack of shop towels be used before I pass this mortal coil? Will my hubby really buy my next high-end jewelry item from Costco’s glittering jewelry showcase?

Ok, I readily confess, we need Costco like a hole in the head. I make a tea bag last for two days and then I use it to reduce eyelid puffiness. But it is so much darn fun to shop there. It is exciting to see an aisle of radial tires that will fit my ‘03 Harley FXDWG Dyna Wide Glide side by side with boxes of Barbie Peek-a-Boo Petites dolls. I could get Motorcycle Barbie and Biker Boy Ken. It is cool to wander through the light bulb section and at its end see how the merchandisers seamlessly transition from halogen bulbs to a clearance of last year’s holiday wrapping paper. Turning each corner is a pleasant surprise waiting to happen.

Well, not always pleasant. The large sign on the floor next to the display canoe has a footprint on it and the canoe is either taking on water or some child has peed in it. We don’t want a canoe anyway (however, if there had been kyaks that might have been a different story). I always avoid the grape aisle. For some reason Costco shoppers feel it is perfectly acceptable to test taste the grapes and if they prove inferior to spit them out on the floor. The grape aisle is squishy, but nothing compared to the areas around the food sampling stations. A) it is very nice that they give out little samples of pesto glazed squid sushi and B) customers should not plan their day around have a full course luncheon at Costco and then hurl the pesto glazed squid sushi ten steps away in the maxi pad aisle. Disgusting.

I always check out Costco’s locked glass display cases which house the luxury items. Today there was a wide assortment of cut crystal figurines beginning at $89 and going up to the several hundreds. I quickly checked out the Norman Rockwell collectible porcelain figurine collection but then spotted the handbags. And you know it is all about handbags for me. There were two dusty and tired looking bags on the bottom shelf, both with leather fringe a la hippy style. Each was over $400 and I did not recognize the designer. Despite this disappointment, I have gotten excellent deals on Coach bags at Costco. It is like getting a scratch ticket. You just might win something and it does not cost much to take a look since I am here anyway. And hey, I have just put over $200 worth of mixed nuts and joint supplements in my shopping cart. What is $400 more?

Leaving Costco is like leaving a  country with which we have tenuous foreign relations. Two burly (but somewhat aged) women stop each cart and demand to see your receipt. They then scan your cart against your receipt to make sure you actually paid for that eight-pack of Viagralike. Having passed the honesty test you are allowed to leave the premises and trundle your loose goods to your car. We are season Costco shoppers so we know enough to bring our own Green-friendly reusable waxed Trader Joe’s shopping bags. We package our stuff, stow it in the trunk (except for the 64 oz mixed nuts which comes in the front seat for immediate consumption), and sound our fog horn so that they sea of shoppers will part long enough for us to back our car out and zip down the parking lot before the fellow behind us shoots into our barely vacant space.

Once home we face the “Costco Dilemma” — where the heck do we put this stuff. For now it is on the floor in the kitchen. I’ll rearrange the pantry tomorrow and throw out some of those ancient ketchup bottles that have been there forever. That stuff can’t possibly be good any more.

Social Networking

Ah technology. It has made it possible for us to instantly connect with our fellows sharing similar interests across the globe. My work has a social networking technology for its employees. I love it when a screen pops up and I see a picture of a strange man from a distant land. He says “Hi.” I look closely at the tiny photo and check out the name and location — Vlad from Wallachia sales office. I type back a hesitant “Hi”.

And thus the awkward phase of social networking is over and let the fun begin. “Hello. I mostly enjoying reading your profile page and liked your photo. May I hook up with you?” “Ah, Vlad, I think the correct term is Connect with me. Yes, you may add me as a connection. I will go check out your profile page.” Vlad’s page features a picture of his home office — a somewhat sparse looking room apparently decorated in faux stone (actually pretty good faux, the moss on the stone is a nice touch). Below the photo is a blurb about his current non-work activities and interests:

“I take work/life balance seriously. I used to work 24 7 but found myself dead on my feet at the end of the day. Now I have the energy to do volunteer work — I manage our local Red Cross blood bank. I believe giving back to the community is our obligation. When I am not doing my volunteer service I love to read — Anne Rice is my favorite author but I also like Victorian romances (I hate to admit!). To round things out I have a web site fan club devoted to Sarah Michelle Gellar — all time most radical sexy chick on the planet! Things I hate: scampi, going to the beach, cross-bows.”

Vlad looks harmless enough — we both like Anne Rice and dislike going to the beach. I check out his other friends and am curious enough about one to click on her profile: “Mina”. Her photo is just a badly sketched drawing of an animae type girl with super long fingernails dripping with droplets (of blood?!). Her blurb says “Graduate of Miss Pauline’s School for Lost Souls”. How very theatrical. Well, it takes all kinds. I notice she has on her friends list “Paul — software executive.”

I lookup Paul. I recognize the face. I think he used to be in a cube near mine about fifteen years ago when we both worked at Iris. His blurb just says “Recently left sw industry to join HR as a head-hunter.”

I delete my profile page.

Windows

Eighty-four percent of the people reading the title of this post will automatically assume that it is going to be about the Microsoft operating system. They would be wrong. This post is about the real thing, the original, the fenestra of defenestrating, the stuff paned with purple glass in ye olde days and now suffused with green-friendly gases and adorned with faux eight over eights — the, ah, window.

My husband and I used to be yuppies. We lived in a fancy condo in Boston’s Back Bay overlooking the Charles River. Our windows had custom-made interior shutters. True, we only had four windows, but they were top of the line and we still had enough ready cash to buy a latte. The picture is different today — we had the requisite child, moved to the burbs, bought a fixer with location, location, location, diligently improved our asset each year (new roof, landscaping, pavered walkway, new terrace, new flooring, water-heater…you get the picture. This year we decided to go for broke (and I do mean that in the saddest possible way) and get all new windows. Our house has twenty-six windows. Ca-ching!

First came the cold call from Andersen Windows that started it all. Boy we made someone happy. “Yes, we are thinking about purchasing windows instead of retiring. Yes, we would love to have you sit in our dining room lovingly going through your hi-tech, multimedia presentation. Yes, we are eager to fondle the product and sneer at the competitions’ shoddy vinyl. And most especially, yes, we have the money. (Or so we thought. How much could windows cost anyway?). The Andersen rep showed up on time and within an hour was passing a piece of paper to us on which he had just pencilled a silent “$29, 600″ — just like at the car dealership. Except I have never spent close to $30 grand on a car. I excused myself and went into the kitchen to take in some deep breaths. While I was regaining oxygen I heard my spouse say “No payments for a year?”

We signed on the dotted line. Our future in exchange for tilt-in, easy to clean windows. Custom-made windows — of course our house did not have standard sized windows, what, are we punters or something? Six weeks before delivery. Two days, maybe three to install. A lifetime of blissful happiness guaranteed. I have to tell you that our experience with Andersen Windows was fantastic — they got a ten out of ten on their rating report. The best thing about our new windows is that I can see out of them — I had no idea how shabby our old windows were until I had the comparison. I have refused to put up window treatments because I love looking at my investment so much (and because I am lazy).

For vacation this year, Lorne and I are going on one of those seven places in seven days tours. First stop will be the master bathroom where we will enjoy an intimate and close-up view of our 21″ by 43″ easy glide-open window. Then a stop in the bedrooms where we will take the plunge and actually tilt-in a window or two. The living room will be our longest stop since we plan on fufilling our livelong dream of viewing mold and mildew free panes. Pics and a write-up will be posted.

We had the three-day grace period in which we could have cancelled our order. I am glad we did not. We will get back 100% of our investment when we sell. In the meantime, I no longer have to go to weather.com to find out if it is a sunny day. A new window is wonderful to behold.

The Return of Linshaolin (tail between her legs)

Ok, I was supposed to take the summer off to write my novel. Well, how did that go Linshaolin? Funny  you should ask — terrible. Brain freeze, family drama, workload, home repairs, doing my nails, heart murmur, cost of gas, mood altering meds, Law and Order . . . in other words, I found every excuse not to write. For Heaven’s sake why? Fear, gut-wrenching, sweat producing, fear of failure. Yes, instead of writing I used power tools. I planted two million tomato plants. I painted my home office taupe. I made it through part 38 of Form 42 in Tai Chi class. I went to a Tibetan monastery and put labels on their party invitation envelopes. I chanted, meditated, studied the dharma, became part of a sangha, did the loopty loop, and pretended that I was not afraid.

So, is my writing career dead in the water before I even jumped into the pool? No way. I figure that another eleven sessions with my shrink will do the trick. We got up to the point where I sobbed while remembering that I could not write within the lines in third grade — then he went on holiday. “Hold that traumatic moment. We are out of time.” I know deep in my heart that once I unearth the memories of getting my first C- (essay about Martha Washington, seventh grade) and survive them that my fear of being a total, miserable, laughing stock writer will fade. I will spend my Autumn in glorious purple prose.

Meanwhile, while I was away I met an amazing cat. He is a neighborhood cat — every Sunday at 9 AM the doors open at the church to let in the members of the Unitarian Universalist Buddhist Fellowship so that we can have our meditation practice — and, like clockwork, the cat wanders up the street and through the door and joins the meditators for a quiet half hour. When the finish bell rings three times and we begin to stir, the cat leaves and goes home. We have named him Shadow. I am sure he is an enlightened being.

Despite the joy of the Buddhist shadow cat, this was a difficult summer. My dearest friend’s son died. My heart is still aching over this loss. Another dear friend’s sister is battling cancer. My nephew (who suffers from autism) had to be hospitalized again. My health declined as the Parkinson’s continues its relentless march. Yet, despite these immense sorrows, I continue to see the world as a bright and glorious place. And I am happy to be back at the blog — so many handbags to tell you about, so many scientific discoveries to report. I do hope you are all still out there!

Linshaolin takes a busman’s holiday

Devoted reader (ah, that should be “readers” as in plural, as in maybe three or four) — you have seen me through thick and thin (OK, not thin) over the past year, but it is time for Linshaolin to take the next exit off the Fast Lane. This will be a temporary side trip. The Breakdown in the Fast Lane blog will resume. Perhaps in the Fall, perhaps sooner.

There are only so many hours in the day and I am getting older and can no longer live on four hours of sleep. Something has got to go so that I can concentrate on my novel. I need more time if I ever hope to finish that thing! Wish me luck and if any of you know a literary agent please introduce us!

See you in September!

A couple of words you always wish you knew what they meant…

If you are like me there are some words that you have to look up repeatedly since their definitions just don’t seem to stick in your head. Here are some that have come up recently in conversations (I am putting them together in a sentence for you to illustrate): I am sanguine that those of you in sartorial splendor find a surfeit of reasons not to infer from my speech that I deduce from the meager evidence that you are zoftig. I hope that the following translation and explanation helps you learn and retain these important words so that you too can sound erudite.

I am confident that those of you who are splendidly attired  will find an excess of reasons not to use your brains to figure out that what I am saying is that I have examined the little evidence that there is and have concluded that you are of a soft, well-rounded body type.

Sanguine literally means bloody or blood red. It gets its current usage (to be confident) from the medieval times when blood was thought to be the element representing passion or conviction. Sartorialrefers to ones manner of dress and derives from the Latin word for tailor. Surfeitmeans in excess or to to overdo (my favorite example is “a surfeit of eating leaves one feeling crapulous.”) and derives from French sur (over or above) and faire (to do).

Infer and deduce are often mixed up. Deduction and Inference are both forms of inference — they are subtly but importantly different. The Latin deducere means to lead away from. Deduction is the reasoning in which one reaches a conclusion based on the stated premises. Inference is reasoning to a conclusion by examining evidence presumed or known to be true. The Latin infere means to bring in! The difference has something to do with the certainty of the truth of the premises. It is a joyful occasion when one hears infer and deduce used properly — it is one of those “I can’t really explain it well but I know it when I hear it.”

Zoftig means a fleshy female (usually a fleshy buxom female) and comes from the Yiddish word for juicy. Language is divine!