You are your bathroom

I don’t understand why folks spend money on traditional dating services. Clients select prospective dates based on their responses to a questionnaire. Come on, who is actually gonna tell the truth. “I am a member of a support group called Over Fifty and 100 Pounds to Lose.” “I sometimes forget basic hygiene.” ”I sleep with a stuffed animal. OK, well really, I sleep with 17 stuffed animals and tuck each one in at night.” No. Questionnaires are about as reliable as the videos you get to watch. Sure you get to see what your prospective date looks like — at least their head. But looks are a very superficial criteria in the selection process. I grant you that it helps a bit since you can rule out the mullets right away but it does nothing for the really important qualities.

Do not despair. I have started a new service. Candidates send in a photo of their bathroom. Clients can view the photos online. Bathrooms tell everything. I’ll give you an example: the bathroom pic shows that there are twenty-seven rolls of toilet paper stacked in a neat pyramid on the floor. Each one is encased in a crocheted bog roll cover. There are several books on the floor — a graphic novel about Bertrand Russell, a bodice ripper called ”Night of the Valient Princes”, and a copy of ”Going Rogue.” Next to the bathtub is a small rolling cart crammed with bath products and a shoe box containing soap remnants. The toilet seat is raised. On the sink, lined up in a neat row are seven electric toothbrushes all plugged into a power strip. Someone has written on the mirror in red lipstick “I’ll be right back.”

As part of the basic fee my service will send you a detailed analysis of the photo revealing a deep psychological portrait of the candidate. For the above example the analysis would be something like this (abbreviated to save space):

The client is a well-groomed woman whose multiple personalities will keep you on your toes – you will never be bored in her his her charming company. She enjoys crafts and grows hemlock on her balcony. She is resourceful and ecologically-minded — especially suitable for our clients living in Eugene, Oregon. She is like getting seven dates for the price of one.

Actually the part about the bathroom example is taken from real life (mine). The only part I made up is about the bodice ripper. The real title is “Thus Spake Sara Theresia.” I am working on coming up with a name for my new dating service. The top running ideas are : Lavatory Love, Toilet Twosomes, and Double Duty.

Wheat-free, sugar-free, dairy-free. . .

The Shaolin household is on a special diet. The hubby has been diagnosed with diabetes and heart problems and is forced to radically change his eating habits (which means the entire household has to change its eating habits cause there ain’t no way I am shopping and cooking for three distinct tastes!). Forever my life calendar will be divided into the Before era when a breakfast of Ricola (original flavor) and a grande caramel machiato was nutritionally balanced at lunch with Campbell’s soup (for the veggies) and the After (diagnosis) era when breakfast consisted of half a cup of spelt, a teaspoon of raisins and a sugar-free, soy chai latte sweetened with some vile white powder that looks like cocaine (as depicted on TV) and sounds like it was named after someone in Fleetwood Mac.

The doctor asked hubby what percentage of his diet was made up of cheese. Hubby, clearly delirious at the time, told him about 20%. In fact, if the dear man were to be examined today we would discover a cheese to muscle ratio of 63.1825 to 1. Now please don’t be hard on me by reminding me that my figure is not exactly bearing witness to proper adherence to the food pyramid — I have a valid excuse — I am dyslexic and had inverted the pyramid for all these years. And besides, women are supposed to be soft and round. Why just the other night my beloved said to me “dearest, you still have the butt of a young woman. In fact, you have the butt of two young women.”

I went to Whole Foods Market today to investigate food options. They have a whole aisle dedicated to “special diets”. As you approach the aisle, there is a conveniently located ATM with Fast Cash defaulting to $260 and a small desk with a bank loan officer. The food is organized by type and price: “Gluten-free, artificial chocolate, pancake mix, three ounces, $17.50″. “Brown rice flour (expiring in 2007), $29.79.” Bread is sold by weight. Have you ever tried to lift a loaf of barley and sprouts bread? The loaves are about four inches square and are used by the U.S. Mint to counterbalance gold bars on the scales. In tiny print they carry a disclaimer (Not responsible for damage to dentures.)

My husband’s doctor told him to buy copper tabs, Sam-e, and zinc something. I went to customer service to ask where I would find these items. The store manager stepped out of his office beaming. “Mrs. Shaolin, oh do let me help you my good woman. Let me find you a concierge to help with your shopping.” As he left I swear he was quoting Lucy from the Peanuts cartoon: “Nickles, nickles. Oh, I love the sound of nickles. Cold hard cash!” My concierge was named Paul and he swooped down flicking bits of parsley and rosewater soap from his apron. “Hello, hello, hello! Before we begin, have you seen the loan officer? May I get you an Evian water? No? Well, let me see your list. Ah! Sam-e. Do you want the 20 or the 30?” Not knowing what the unit of measure of Sam-e was (in fact I did not know whether Sam-e was a food or a person) I opted for the 30. I was handed a box measuring one inch by three inches and marked $39.99. Copper tabs were priced with a variable rate depending on how soon you thought you could pay them off. The zinc thingy was out of stock.

For dinner we had leftovers — vegetarian lasagna made with rice noodles. We’ll be having it again tomorrow. For dessert hubby enjoyed a crunchy hazelnut rice cake. I am glad that most of the box is remaining since I need to mail a tea set to my aunt for her birthday.

Hubby’s health is, of course, my number one concern. But some good is coming from this unfortunate news — it is bringing my daughter and myself closer — we now meet secretly at Burger King to enjoy some mother/daughter time.

Reports of my demise are greatly exaggerated

It has been too long since I last posted — I have been intensely busy. Ever since I was laid off from Big Corporation in April and joined the ranks of  job seekers I have been engaged in many productive, altruistic activities. As an example I will mention farming. Yes, this East Coast urban pseudo-intellectual now has a many acre farm growing vegetables, flowers, and raising livestock. Farming keeps me pretty busy. My farm is in Farmville in the state of Facebook. Many of my friends have also become farmers despite the fact that they still have jobs. Farming is the new face of social networking.

I start each morning at 5:00 AM (everyone knows farmers are up before dawn) and harvest my crops, brush my livestock, milk my cows, and pick the ripe fruit from my orchards. Then I collect the gifts that my fellow farmers have sent me during the night — right now I am receiving lots of colorful presents to put under my tree. With each twenty presents my decorated Christmas tree grows a little bigger. Then, being a good citizen, I go help out on my friends farms, fertilizing and chasing away nasty critters. My actions are not entirely altruistic — I gain “experience” points for helping out. I can use these to expand my farm.

When I get exhausted by my labors I can play Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook. It is about as addictive as potato chips. It is a game in which manual dexterity is important — I have the hand speed of a turtle (if turtles had hands) and so my scores pale against those of my friends. But I am working toward a personal best. It is a sign of my maturity and intense personal discipline that I limit my game time to six hours — my life is rich and multifaceted — I must leave time for Starbucks.

Oh, I have been job hunting too. I got pretty close to a job recently. I had a phone screening with HR, then two 45 minute phone interviews with the hiring manager, did a product evaluation and then was invited to drive to New Hampshire to meet the manager and three other executives. Was it my age or my Parkinson’s that ditched the deal? Never heard from them again. But I mush on, applying to three or four jobs a day. I am giving myself until next Spring to find a job in my field (pardon the sly farm reference). If no one recognizes my talent and good looks by then I will pursue a different line of work. I have been toying with the idea of starting a business as a line-stander. You can hire me to wait in line on your behalf.  “Hello Lin? I am here at the post office and there are at least twenty people in line in front of me….” At your service.

Another great idea I have been pursuing is recycling pet hair. All over America pet owners are brushing their cats and dogs and then just throwing away the hair. Think of the wonderful insulating properties of pet hair. Good bye duck feathers, hello tabby hair.  Actually I have been overflowing with ideas since my layoff. Just as soon as I get enough points to buy a thresher I will do something about them.

Bare feet

Despite the fact that I own over fifty pairs of shoes I seldom wear them. I prefer to go bare foot. Even in the deep of winter I hang around the house shoeless — even occasionally venturing outside in the ice and snow for a quick trash run. After sixty years of going au naturel my tootsies are impervious to most abuse. My desire to have naked feet does not strike me as deviant behavior or even as odd behavior but it sure upsets a lot of people.

My mother, who grew up in rural Kansas during The Great Depression, equated going barefoot with being poor. She refused to let me go barefoot, fearing that the neighbors would think that I was not well-cared for. I tried the old “wear the shoes but then ditch them as soon as you were outside” ploy, but my filthy feet gave me away at bath time. She bought me cool Keds in the hope that I would find them both comfortable and stylish — they were white and had laces coated with antilaced — I found them both ugly and dangerous. She bought me Oxfords which were the traditional black and white with laces — they weighed at least five pounds and made me drag my feet. I would have worn the super nifty black patent Mary Janes with the strap that could be pushed to the heel so it looked like you were wearing strapless shoes but Mom nixed those as being “shoes for older girls.” Hey, I was seven — how old does a girl have to get?

One Christmas we were forced to get dressed up in our party clothes (which for me was a red organza  sparkley thing that my Dad bought me) for holiday photos. Mom did not notice that I was shoeless (I was wearing nice white ankle socks) until the pictures were developed. I had to spend New Year’s Eve in my room as penance. She thereafter referred to me as the Peacock (lovely feathers, ugly feet). Happily I grew into the Sixties — a time when going shoeless could be passed off as a political statement. I joined the throngs of hippie boys and girls for whom shoes were to be worn only when appearing in court or as an excuse to buy thigh high boots.

I discovered that employers prefer shoes but female bosses were often sympathetic to going shoeless if you wore three inch heels to work. I would put on my heels just before entering the work place and limp about, setting the stage for a Mercy pass, and ditched them by 9:45. I kept a pair of Earth Shoes in my drawer to slip on for going out to lunch. In my later career I worked from home and could even put my naked feet up on my desk during conference calls if I wanted to.

My husband is a shoe person and has attempted to exert serious pressure on me to comply. If he sees me going into the basement shoeless he will use the flimsest logic to berate me — “Are you really going into the basement without shoes? You will track dirt all over the house!” Um, and if I am wearing shoes then I suppose they will shed the dirt before I return upstairs? “Are you really going outside without shoes? You will cut your feet!” In sixty years the only time I ever cut my feet outside was at the beach in the water, stepping on a shell. My lawn is not littered with razor blades. “Are you really driving without shoes? It is illegal!” I read the driver’s manual and no where does it say that shoes must be worn. (I can just hear the stampede of readers heading off to Google…)

So why do I have fifty pairs of shoes? Well, I love the look of shoes — they are an awesome accessory. And once in awhile I do need shoes to go out to a restaurant — someone might have dropped a fork on the floor.

Singers

Let’s just say I have eclectic tastes. The two top singers in my life right now are Amy Winehouse and Susan Boyle. I do tend to fixate on singers…can’t get enough of their music for awhile then abruptly drop them and move on to someone else.  I remember driving on the highway listening to the radio and heard “Unbreak My Heart” for the first time. I bought the CD that day and played it compulsively for weeks. Then one day I did not play it again. Same with Christina Agueiler’s “Fighter.” My poor child listened in utero to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” for nine months. I guess she is repaying me by giving me an Amy Winehouse CD. “Me and Mr. Jones” is stuck in my head. Only the burning need to hear Susan Boyle sing “Wild Horses” gets me to turn it off. I think I have mentioned in an earlier post that my mother “inadvertently” melted my record albums after one too many afternoons listening to Johnny Mathis. Chances are that I went out and bought the album again.

Susan Boyle and Toni Braxton at least have great Being Discovered stories. Boyle on Britain’s Got Talent TV show and Braxton singing Gospel at the gas pump while refueling her car. Oddly, given her unconventional lifestyle, Winehouse had a more traditional rise to stardom — going to theatre school and then doing music gigs. But right now she tops my charts not only for her smokey and much abused pipes but for her compositions and lyrics. I love above all things unique and expressive language and her lyrics have that in spades. In “Mr Jones,” bemoaning the lost opportunity to get tickets to a concert, she writes “What kind of fuckery is this? You made me miss the Slick Rick gig. I thought I didn’t love you when I did. I can’t believe you played me out like that.” Deliver those lyrics all messed up in blues.

I’m already looking for a new singer to love.

Cell phones

My cell phone worked just fine but it wasn’t sexy. In fact it was, according to my daughter, rather an embarrassment. It did not flip or switch or rotate. It did not make sounds or have a camera. It did not fit into cell phone holders. It did not have a cool name or one preceded by an “i” or succeeded by a “berry”. It was non-fruit. Its instruction manual was only a two-sided sheet — one side in English and the other in Japanese. It was not sleek. It had an antenna which made me feel like ending every call with “Roger Wilco.” I think I bought it about fifteen years ago. I liked that phone.

But I was about to buckle to the pressure of looking “with it”– and, truth be told, the screen had become so scratched I could no longer see who was calling me. Well, if the whole truth be told, no one actually called me except by mistake. I long ago had forgotten what my cell phone number was so I never gave it out to anyone. My cell phone was for emergencies on the road. I did use it twice (or would have used it) for that purpose. The first time was when I got a flat tire at night. My phone battery was on empty — I managed to call the first three digits of Triple A’s number before it went dead. I had a long walk in search of an open gas station and used their phone. The nice man at the gas station explained to me that there were rechargers that could be plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter thingy. I went to Radio Shack the next day, phone in hand.

The sales associate looked at my phone with curiosity. “You still use this?” “Well, yah, that is why I am asking for a recharger for it.” “Um, chargers are no longer made for this model m’am. You probably will wanna think about updating your phone. The new ones are smaller and you can text and play games on them. Sweet.” I did not know what texting was and I did not want to play games on my phone. So I said no thanks and made it a point to recharge my phone at home.

My second car emergency was not so much an emergency as it was a need to get instructions while driving. Traffic was terrible and was inching along when I noticed a little draught of smoke emerging from where my radio was fitted into the dash. I placed my fingers on the dashboard and it was hot. I may not be the world’s greatest technologist but I do know that radios are not supposed to be hot and smokey. I pulled off to the side of the road with every intention of calling hubby to confer about what to do. I rummaged around in my handbag looking for my phone. I dumped out my bag onto the passenger seat. No phone. Then I remembered that I was recharging it at home. Damn!

A kind motorist stopped to assist me. He must have noticed the flames. Armed with a portable fire extinguisher, he sprayed my dashboard until the fire was out. I drove home sitting on a sodden, foaming seat, vowing to go out and buy a new phone immediately. About four more years passed before I got my new phone. And I was driven by necessity. I dropped my phone in the ocean while climbing on rocks at the seashore. I learned that a dip in the ocean (or toilet bowl) is a fatal accident for a cell phone. I read reviews of telephones and saw one that was marketed to older people and featured a large-print display and big buttons for arthritic hands. It sounded perfect to me. Hubby and I went to the phone store and bought the new phone. It was pearlized white and I could read the screen. That was all I could do.

The instruction booklet was over 200 pages (I grant you that half was in another language) but nowhere did it say how to turn the phone on. By process of elimination I determined that  pressing the “end” button made it start. I dialed a number but made no connection. I pressed all the buttons. The “send” button did the trick despite the fact that I had not yet said anything to send. I inadvertently connected to the Internet and was shown a lively bar chart of all the bytes I was transferring to God knows where. I rapidly pressed the buttons looking for “off.” It turns out that the “end” button is both the start and the end key. Go figure.

I had not owned my cell phone long when I received a text message. My phone told me “New text message” and gave me the option to call. Now, how does one call a text message? Afraid I would start transferring expensive bytes again I opted not to call. But curiosity overcame me and I broke down. I chose the “call” option. Lo and behold, I was taken to a screen which displayed this message: “Is that you?” Well, duh, I should think so. But I did not know how to text back my affirmation. Very frustrating. The next day I received another text message: “Hey Stuckup!” I got my daughter to text back for me. “Hi, yes this is me — who are you?” I never heard back.

Labor Day

My therapist does not understand why the thought of Labor Day upsets me so much — of course he doesn’t — he is employed. For the tens of thousands of us who are not, having the whole nation celebrate their labor is a slap in the face. Next there will be a Have Health Insurance Day or a Trophy Wife Day. There is a growing lack of sensitivity in our country. Why just yesterday I went on a job interview and met with five of the top executives. Not one of them was over thirty. When I walked in the room the audible intake of breath was accompanied by one of the two company dogs curling his lip at me. I interpreted both acts as examples of “Oh my god, an old person!”.

Despite the fact that I had just colored my hair, I had forgotten that young executives do not wear polyester and frowned upon anyone who did. And I regretted the last minute application of eye liner. Since I can’t wear my glasses when I put on eye liner I just have to do my best and yesterday my best was reminiscent of Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra. Young female executives don’t wear eye liner — they have tattoos. Not one for lingering over my mistakes, I put my best foot forward and actually had a decent interview. It was a great company and they were great people. I can’t hold it against them that their cumulative ages was less than my bra size.

After my interview I went to a workshop at my career transition service. It was about stress management. We spent an hour and a half meditating and talking about how our spouses were getting on our nerves. We learned that we needed to take breaks from job hunting and treat ourselves to something nice. We went around the room to survey what we were doing to take a break from job hunting. The majority admitted that they had actually taken the summer off and were stressed only because it was now Labor Day and they probably really should begin looking for employment. I, on the other hand, have been working my sizable rear off all summer and have sent out hundreds of applications  with the yield being one phone screening and two interviews. I  believe my colleagues had the better idea.

Mine was not an idle summer on other fronts as well. I had many accomplishments. At the gym I have increased my incline on the bike to a 2 setting and I no longer stop off on the way home at Panera for a latte and cinnamon bun. I discovered that the peacan braids were much better. I dropped out of Tibetan language class — it was causing me too much stress. But I started studying Spanish. My husband is a native Spanish speaker and he helps me. He has taught me to say “Yo soy tu esclava para siempre.” He says it is a feminist slogan. All these years of my enlightened reasoning has had an effect on him. I have also enjoyed a fair bit of culture — my girlfriend and I went to an exhibition of shoe art and I have seen several stimulating films. Like “District 9″. I keep wondering if Americans will realize that prawns are basically shrimp. The whole plot hinges on an understanding of this cultural difference. My husband says I worry about others too much.

Talking about shrimp reminds me that we have invited a couple over for a barbeque on Labor Day. We plan to play tennis first and then cook up some shrimp and chicken. Both of them are employed, so I will put on a brave face and celebrate their Labors with them but first thing Tuesday I am calling my Congressman to get a petition started for Unemployed Day.

When students rule. . .

Normally our Tibetan Buddhist practice is led by our lama but he is on an extended retreat. We have a wonderful monk temporarily filling in, but he is not able to lead all our practices so, being a democratic sangha, we allow the more “senior” students to lead.

A few months ago I was asked to lead.  Needless to say, I was extremely nervous about this opportunity despite the fact that I was given a pretty thorough lesson plan to follow. All was going well until we got to the dharma discussion. We were discussing nonviolence and meditation. Fully into the swing of things I was going on about how the meditation we had just done would bring many benefits to the practitioners — “It’s like killing two birds with one stone!” I happily proclaimed.

Last night was the weekly Beginners’ Night practice and the center had several newcomers checking out what it was like. The student leader had captured the audience’s attention and all eyes were riveted on her. She began to talk about how if we did not show compassion for each other the world would decline and suffering would arise. To illustrate, she then began talking about a mother who decapitated her baby and ate its brains. There was a great deal of squirming while in lotus posture.

At a yoga class the teacher was out sick and had called a student to lead the class. She began with a five minute lecture on why it is OK to fart while doing yoga.

During our Tibetan language class the lama was pronouncing words and having us repeat in unison after him. We were doing fine until we got to the word for student. We all repeated what we had heard him say and the monk turned bright red and began laughing hysterically. Apparently the minute error in our pronunciation caused us to say a very bad word. Khenpo refused to reveal what we had said. So now we all have to avoid using the word for “student” in our speaking.

Buddhism has survived for centuries. I hope there is good karma in trying one’s best.

The job fair

It has been three months since I was liberated from the stress of actually having an income. Life is so much simpler in many ways — like this afternoon my daughter and I were on our way home from a job fair when she suggested we stop for ice cream. “I have three dollars. How much do you have?” “Nothing . . . we can share one.” See — a mother/daughter bonding experience handed to us. In the olden days of employment I would have had seven dollars and we would blithely have purchased two cones and sat in silence as we ate. Sharing one cone gave us lots of opportunity to chat — “Hey! Don”t hog the whole thing!”

But Linshaolin has gotten off topic (no, actually, Linshaolin has started off topic) . . . Alli and I, both unemployed went to a job fair together. She informed me of the chance to go to a job fair just as I was applying a final coat of Nantucket Mist nail varnish. “When would we have to leave?” I queried. “Right now.” So with fingers splayed and held in front of me so that I could blow on them (men, the art of the manicure is an ancient and complex activity — some of which defies explanation. This includes the ritual of exhaling on one’s fingers) I tucked a stack of resumes in my sophisticated black portfolio and tucked myself into the passenger seat of my car (I am not allowed to drive because it makes my daughter nervous). After missing one turn off and going the wrong way up a one-way street we finally found the career center. It was easy to spot. There were hundreds of people in suits carrying sophisticated black portfolios and looking overheated.

Once inside I was given a form to fill out. At best my handwriting is illegible. With fingers held out rigidly straight it is impossible. I handed in the form to a nice lady who glanced at it and said “Thank you Norma, please follow the crowd into the job fair.” I said “The name is not Norma, it is Linshaolin!” The nice lady said “It is important to the success of the job hunt to make a good first impression” I followed the crowd and headed to a table with a sign that said Air Force. The Air Force was looking for project managers. Oh good. I went up to the woman sitting at the table and gave my spiel. “Hi, I am Linshaolin, a PMI-certified project manager, and I have a strong interest in your program management opening.” The woman sighed. “This is a mistake.” I thought to myself that, indeed, it probably was a mistake — I don’t think I would make it through boot camp. She went on, “The Air Force was not scheduled for today. The brochure is wrong. But if you want to drive to Rhode Island there is a job fair today where they are scheduled. I took a pass on that and went to the back of a line sixteen people deep to talk with a recruiter for a defence contractor.

While waiting I touched my nails to my lip a couple of times to check on their “doneness.” My fingers were getting tired of being splayed and people were leaving me a wide berth as if I were Edward Scissorhands. I chatted with a few ladies in line. One of them was a project manager too. Before being laid off she managed complex IT projects. She was glowing with confidence — “I just got a job offer! Doing what? Well it is to manage golf ball production.” I was about to congratulate her when it was my turn at the recruiter station. I opened my mouth. I recruiter stopped me. “Ya know what’s best? It is best that you go to our web site and apply on line. All I am looking for is key words so do that hon, ok? Next.” Well that was twenty minutes well spent.

Confident that my nails were dry I flexed my fingers and in doing so left a swash of Nantucket Mist across the front of my blouse. I forgot myself and said a bad word rather loudly and had to slink away into the crowd. Safely on new turf I went up to a publishing company table and gave the recruiter my resume. She gave it the thirty second review and said “Your resume is quite impressive. You should apply.” I told her I had applied to several job openings at her company and had never heard anything back. She explained that the company was actually six or seven companies and she was only representing one of them. I felt her staring at my chest and looked down. The nail varnish was quite a nice shade. “Do you like it? I asked. “It is Nantucket Mist by OPI.” We talked about doing nails for awhile and then I moved on to a Dish Network table.

Deciding I was not a strong candidate for satellite dish installation I searched for my daughter whose college education cost me about $150,000. She was applying for a data entry position. We left and chatted about whether we should take money out of the bank and buy roast beef sandwiches. Deciding no, we drove home chatting happily and sharing our cone. I asked her if she had any more gum. “No, Mom, and I am not sharing mine with you!”

July 29th — summer arrives

Today is my husband’s 62nd birthday which we will be celebrating in the time-honored way — birthday presents, dinner out, homemade birthday cake, and he gets to cut my hair…no, I am sorry to disappoint you, but this is not leading up to some kinky birthday ritual. I just needed a hair cut and given that I am unemployed, I was not about to shell out fifty bucks so the hubster gets the job.

So this morning I drive to Dunk’n Donuts to get him a medium hot caramel latte  and a jelly donut to put him in the right frame of mind, gather up the comb and scissors and give him the come hither look. By the time he realizes that he is not getting his birthday present yet, he is too far conned to back out. I point to a single strand of hair that brushes my cheekbone. “I want it all exactly that length.” Hubby begins at the back and begins vigorously chopping away. I watch tender curls of hair waft down to the floor. I watch big hunks of hair drop to the floor. “Dearest, are you being mindful of the length?” I inquire politely. “Have I ever given you a bad haircut?” “No dear one, you have never cut my hair before.” “Ok then, why worry about something that has not happened yet . . . er . . . I saw in a magazine how the new style is for hair to be shorter in back than in front.” “Oh, you mean the Bob?” “Um…no, the Gibbs.”

Luckily I am a Buddhist and believe in nonviolence. There is so much in life these days that presses one’s faith. The other day I was pulling up at a dangerous intersection, craning my neck to see if traffic was coming, when the bloke behind me leans on his horn. I do not take well to bullies so I indicated my displeasure and continued on my way to the grocery store. Where I turned off the road he continued on in a blaze of white pick up truck. We met again at the entrance to the store, he having taken the low road and I haven taken the high road. I gave him the smile that says “Got here first sucka!” I accept the karma that comes with a good NaNa.

It has rained here in New England continuously since late April. Finally yesterday it was sunny and hot and we installed the room air conditioners. Nero Kitty immediately lay on his back on my desk legs spayed, cooling his privates. Once sufficiently cool, he went to check out all the AC units in the bedrooms, performing the same display of immodesty, returning to the office for his nap. Nero has not enjoyed the rainy cool weather. He is afraid of mushrooms (which are now growing abundantly in our yard) and growls at them. He is also unsure of the rabbit which shares his time between our yard and the one next door. They came face to face once with only the window screen and a few feet between them. Eyes locked they had a showdown which ended with Nero making a very strange gurgling noise and bolting upstairs for a nap under the rocking chair.

The job hunt has yielded little — one phone interview that I terminated when I heard the words “air traffic control” (for which the flying public should be eternally grateful) and lots of auto-generated emails saying my qualifications were impressive and that they would be back in touch if my qualifications were a good match. I have met a lot of nice people at my outplacement service. They have lots of workshops and networking breakfasts where we get to hobnob with the unemployed. I recently sat next to a CEO who talked wistfully about needing to find religion again and to a man who talked about death. I introduced them to each other and moved on to talk with a lady who had been a developer and was closing in on the final details of her new dog-walking business.

The spouse and I have avoided any serious discussions about the future by fixating on looking at real estate in Rhode Island. We spend hours online, emailing each other URLs of places we like the looks of. Every once in awhile we will look at places in Arizona and Spain. We found one house in Rhode Island that we both considered to be perfect except that it was on stilts in the ocean. We could not figure out how we would park our cars. We also found an almost perfect artist’s loft and I have already worked out every detail of the new art gallery I would have to open if we lived there. All this thinking about moving has inspired me to start de-accessioning the tons of junk we have accumulated over the past forty some years. I filled a trash bag with old white-out (of course I shook every bottle to make sure it was not still good) and plastic file folder label holders along with hundreds of photocopied pages of physical therapy exercises for frozen shoulder (which, as far as I can remember no one in the family has ever suffered from).

For the birthday cake I am making Ina Garten’s chocolate layer cake, but I am adding an almond filling between the layers. After a bit of experimentation, I exactly reproduced the filling Au Bon Pain uses in its almond croissants. Gooey deliciousness. Hubby requested tapas for his birthday dinner so we have reservations at the local tapas restaurant — then cake and opening presents at home. I love birthdays (except my own!). The husband is doing well for 62 — two tennis leagues and no dimunition in his female fan-base. I will have to look extra special tonight.

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.