The First Sound: Practicing Meditation

I am beginning to practice meditation as a means of freeing myself, at least temporarily, from physical pain and mental turmoil and opening myself to wisdom and compassion. The operative word is “practice” — so far I am practicing sitting in the Lotus posture. Next week I hope to progress to getting up from it. Until then I will rely on my husband and daughter, each grasping one of my arms and hauling. In my reading about meditation I learned that the first sound in the universe after creation was “Om” — if I had been around back then the sound would have been “Ow.” I also read that proper meditation will be achieved once one ceases to struggle to achieve it. If that includes getting up off the floor then I am in trouble.

“Om” is a sound that is supposed to precede chanting and means something like “assent to the the truth.” I guess the most famous chant for us Westerners is Om Mani Padme Aum. This lovely series of sounds is forever combined in my mind with Edina in Absolutely Fabulous tipsily chanting for five seconds before going off to indulge in bad behavior. It will take me years before I can chant it without adding “sweetie” at the end. Perhaps I should not struggle with that. “Om sweetie darling.”

I was not being successful practicing with the Bees Gees in the background, so I bought several CDs of meditation music to put me in the right environment and create an atmosphere conducive to clearing the mind. They have encouraging titles such as “Detachment” and “Tranquil Sunrise”. I played one for the first time recently and it gave me very bad vibes. I knew I had heard it before and I wracked my brains for most of the morning trying to figure out where — then I remembered. The dentist was playing it as “white noise” during a recent root canal. I wonder if the same music sales rep works both the dental practice industry and the at-home meditation market.

Being a Westerner, I believe in doing thorough research and also in buying whatever is necessary to make me successful in an endeavor. Mood music is good, as is the yoga mat. But it is my Buddah statue that I know is the key to success. There are several versions of Buddah to choose from and I chose Medicine Buddah since I suffer from chronic illness – it is said that if one meditates on the Medicine Buddah that eventually one will attain enlightenment and in the meantime one will experience his healing powers. Even just seeing the image of the Medicine Buddah is supposed to impart great healing power. Unfortunately the mantra of the Medicine Buddah is long and difficult. I hope that until I master it that it will be acceptable to hum a few of the words.

So, I am outfitted with my mat for comfort (but not luxury), my CDs for atmosphere, my statue for inspiration, and my mind for simultaneously clearing of thought and accepting of wisdom. Thus prepared I am ready to practice, with a vow not to become frustrated or harsh with myself if I am imperfect. Buddhism is about compassion. How can I be compassionate to others if I am not to myself — and so I will practice patiently. Buddah did not attain enlightenment in a day and I suspect it will take me rather longer.

I Ate My Homework and Other Misadventures

I married the week I turned nineteen and followed my husband to Toronto where he was attending university. Armed with my high school diploma I promptly applied to college too, only to be told that in Canada you had to go to Grade 13 in order to have the minimum college entrance requirements. Not only that, I was informed that my high school credits left me short in requirements for Grades 10 – 12! The only way I was going to get into college was by enrolling in the Province of Ontario’s correspondence school system to take the courses I needed for Canadian high school equivalency.

I was excited when my first package of class materials arrived. It was for 10th grade chemistry. There was a fat text book, a workbook of analytical experiments, and a crate of chemicals, test tubes, and a Bunsen burner. Things progressed reasonably well for a few weeks. I did my assignments and put them in the post to be reviewed by my anonymous teacher. S/he would return my work with comments and grades. All pretty standard. But then I had my first assignment in which I had to use empirical evidence in determining what a mystery chemical could be. I tested the substance in alkalines, in acids, on different substances, I observed, I smelled . . . I tasted.

About three days after returning my assignment for grading I received a phone call. It was my correspondence school teacher, almost hysterical. “Mrs. Shaolin, is that you? Oh thank God!. This is Sydney Brinks from Ontario Education. Please, please do not taste the chemicals! Are you alright, no ill effects?” I was quite fine by then, the stomach distress, while dramatic, had lasted only a few hours. I pointed out to my teacher that the workbook’s chapter summary included the words “use your senses” when describing analysis. I am sure Sydney was thinking “use your brains while you are at it!”

When NASA was looking for a place to have their astronaut trainees experience what it would be like to be on the surface of the moon, they chose to set up shop in Downsview, Ontario. Flat, wind-swept, icy, and in the snow belt. York University also set up shop there, a cluster of buildings in a wasteland of ice connected by underground corridors. That is where I finally got into college — not exactly the ivy covered quadrangle I had envisioned but it was college. I had a long commute by bus. The bus dropped me off about half a mile from the buildings and I had to walk against the arctic wind across a flat expanse of snow.

Like most students, my college life consisted of classes, socializing, and drinking beer. One afternoon, after a couple of brews in the student lounge, I headed to the bus stop pleasantly buzzed. It was snowing hard and the wind was fiercer than usual. Head down, blinded by the snow, I forged ahead , alone on the barren tundra, when suddenly I plummeted into a sink hole in the snow. I lay flat on my back, forming a perfect snow angel, looking up at the darkening sky and at least eight feet of packed snow walls all around me. “Oh, I think I am going to freeze here. I’ll be found in the Spring, perfectly preserved. I am glad I had beer.” I experienced that pleasant calm that it is said people feel just before they freeze to death. But I had a good weekend planned and that would spoil it so I got up and threw my weight against the wall hoping to at least form an incline that I could climb. No success. So I began the slow work of carving myself footholds in the frozen snowbank. It grew dark and I was seriously cold. Finally I got close enough to the surface that my excavations tossed fragments of ice onto the surface.  Six or seven students who had been passing by noticed the ice erupting from the ground in an intermittent spray. They heard the sounds of scrappling and digging and came close to investigate just as I emerged from my arctic tomb . I must have looked like Yeti for they stopped dead in their tracks, blinking against the snow mouths open. I dusted myself off and proceeded to catch the bus home.

Some years later I was on a flight from Montreal to Toronto during a horrific rain and lightning storm. We attempted to land in Toronto twice but had to return to Montreal because of the weather conditions. The passengers were pretty weary by this time and also getting a bit scared because the pilot seemed intent on landing no matter what. He made his third approach.  I had a window seat but it was so dark and foggy that no lights permeated the gloom. I could tell by the sounds of the plane that we were descending and I watched intently for signs of the city below. I heard the landing gear drop and then I saw sparks shooting off the wings in a thin stream of flame. The plane hit the ground with a crack and then the engine roared. People began to scream. I was mesmerized looking out the window unable not to face my doom. Suddenly we were ascending, pulling up so steeply that we were all forced back in our seats. No one breathed for several minutes. The pilot came on the speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are returning to Montreal to disembark. We have executed a mislanding.”

The Craft Fair

  Around the holidays I sell my handbags at local craft fairs. It is fun way to make some extra cash and I enjoy the people-watching opportunity almost as much as the commercial one. I participated in a craft fair this past holiday season at a large Ecole International school. It was well attended with about thirty or forty vendors. My set-up was in the middle of a grouping of three tables pushed together. On one side of me was a lady selling magnets with dog photos on them ($3.50 each). The table on the other side remained vacant for awhile, the vendor was late showing up.

The magnet lady and I were getting to know one another, chatting and having coffee. She had a steady stream of people fondling her magnets and a few buyers. My bags, being priced $25 and up also had a good deal of attention but no buyers. About an hour into the fair the final table mate arrived with her entourage. She had four helpers crammed into a four foot space. They began to unpack and set up her display. Magnet Lady and I watched in disapproval as the group encroached upon our territory.

Our disapproval turned into puzzled amazement as the display took shape. First the woman’s helpers laid what looked like a stained diaper across the table, slipping underneath it a couple of boxes to provide elevation. Then they scattered glitter and some of those glass stones used in flower vases. And finally they unpacked the items that were to be for sale. The woman was selling crude wire figures partially covered in papier mache, feathers and glitter. I scoffed to myself — for I had never seen anything more ugly, cheap looking, and crudely made.

These figurines must have been emitting ultrasonic vibrations, or musk or something, because almost immediately a crowd began to form around the display. “Ooooh, these are nice!” “How much for two?” “Can I special order some for Christmas presents?” Kaching — the sound of money changing hands..  I called a friend, “You have to come over here and see this.” While I waited for my friend to witness the frenzy of buying hideous junk, my handbags were completely ignored. Magnet Lady was off chasing a kid who had walked off with a fist full of magnets. I continued to watch in  bewilderment.

My friend arrived and watched the continuous stream of admirers and buyers at the “art” table. She shook her head in wonderment. “Perhaps it is a French thing,” she suggested. I perked up a bit when I saw a photographer for the local newspaper heading my way. Great, some publicity. He stood in front of me about to speak when some strong but invisible force rotated his head away from my space to the evil glitter kingdom. He began shooting pictures of the twisted wire objects. He left without ever glancing in my direction.

I spelled the Magnet vendor so that she could get some lunch. While she was gone I sold three magnets. The Glitter Queen sold out, packed up and went home. As a consolation prize I spread out my bags onto her table. It was afternoon and I had not yet sold a bag. In fact it was not until 4:30 that I had a customer. But in the last half hour of the fair I sold $260 worth of bags. Witnessing the sale of one of my bags my neighbor lady asked, “How much did you sell that for?” I told her it was sixty dollars. She did some mental math, dividing sixty dollars by $3.50. Then she looked at her sales sheet for the day. She had sold eleven magnets — “Wow, if I sell seven magnets in the next nine minutes before we close I will make as much as you got for one bag.” I suggested that she might want to add some glitter to her wares and up her price by a dollar.

Fellow Travelers

I spend a considerable amount of time in the air, flying both for work and pleasure. As a result I have met some pretty interesting fellow travelers –  there is nothing like close quarters to break down the social barriers and forge that odd camaraderie that is intense until arrival at the gate and then dissipates faster than recycled air.

Once on a short flight from Boston to New York I sat next to a stunning young woman. We got to chatting and the inevitable question “what do you do” arose. I explained that I was an editor and then posed the question to my new friend. “I am a working girl,” she said. Confused, thinking that we had already established that we were both in the work force I asked “What kind of work?” She looked at me closely, sizing up whether I was a moron or whether I was pulling her leg. Deciding on moron, she replied “I teach French.”

We were in a row with three seats, me being in the middle. Our neighbor, who had been keeping to himself, suddenly was quite intent on listening in and was pretty much contorting his body so he could get a better view of the linguist. The conversation  continued: “Listen honey, I am on my way to a party in Manhattan. It is a weekend gig.” Still uncomprehending I shared with her my weekend plans. The guy next to me began digging his elbow into my side. It wan’t until that evening when I was sharing the events of the day with my friends that they cracked up in unison over my naivety and I understood at last.

Last year I was returning home from Denver when I found myself the sole female in about ten rows of men in suits. These guys could have all been clones — same age, all trim and fit, all slightly bald, none engaged in reading newspapers or working on their laptops. They were all alert. I began to feel a bit creeped out by these centurians of air travel so I thought I would try to engage my row mate in conversation. It turned out to be easy enough.. “Busy week. Glad to be heading home. You?” The guy hands me his business card. “Homeland Security”. I stared at the card, my mind racing. Were these guys all agents? Bureaucrats? Was something going on? Finally he spoke up. “See that guy in the blue suit?  We are here because of him.” He spoke no more. I did not recognize the Blue Suit. They were met at Logan Airport by more men in suits and did not appear at the luggage carousel.

On another long flight I sat next to a very young man with a very little baby. He seemed quite stressed out and almost immediately began to try to feed his infant a Big Mac. I am not usually a busy body but it was clear the young Dad needed some assistance. I called over the stewardess and got some milk and graham crackers. I showed the fellow how to soak the crackers so they would be nice and mushy for the baby. Grateful, he began to tell me his life story. He was an assistant hockey coach. His wife had left him. He was heading to his folks to put his life back together. After unburdening himself he asked if I would hold the baby a moment. I did so happily. The young man turned his back to me, tucked the airplane blanket up over his shoulders and went to sleep.

There are, of course, always the drunks, the proselytizers, and the minor celebrities. You can always judge when a movie career has tanked when the celeb has to sit in Economy with the punters. I have a box of cocktail napkins with the autographs of fallen stars. I like these guys a lot more than the celebrities I briefly pass as I walk through First Class on my way to the back of the plane — no one is more grateful for attention than someone clinging to the B List for dear life. Some of my best flights were spent in their company.

Lawns and Neighbors — the Good, the Bad, the Bizarre

 Ours is one of those streets where lawns  are an Important Reflection of One’s  Character. I remember a college class on  Religion and Economics in which we were reading The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. It was explained that early Protestants believed that evidence of wealth was evidence of being chosen by God to be blessed. I guess everyone on Pleasant Street is a Calvinist and their lawns are the proof of their selection –combined, their lawn expenses equal the gross national product of Montenegro.

The street does not get off to a scenic start — the first house on the street is ramshackle, missing windows, peeling paint, old boxes and discarded household items piled up outside. But the lawn is perfection. The homeowner has his property completely relandscaped about every three years: new bushes, plants, pavers on the walkway, water feature. The Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde of property maintenance.

Across the street from Dr. Jekyl is a house that belongs to a very bad do-it-yourselfer. In a Typhonean moment, the homeowner created a long and winding garden border out of stone and lots and lots of mortar. Mortar leaks between each stone in a hellish ooze of hardened lava. It drips across the walkway in rough hard mounds. It sticks to the handrails made worse by the haphazard painting of Rustoleum over it. The home owner is often seen standing quietly in his yard staring at his creation. Last summer he hired landscapers to beautify his lawn. They attempted to tear down the border with a pneumatic drill but were stopped by the owner, running from his house waving his hands madly. They worked around it, planting the kind of ivy that spreads fast.

In contrast to these oddities, the adjacent houses are Norman Rockwell perfect. Ingound sprinkler systems, tidy fences, manicured lawns, contolled beds of color coordinated flowers. Unlike most of the neighbors, these homeowners do the yardwork themselves — at least the menfolk do — the women are usually pregnant and supervising. Large families means lots of yard labor –in the Fall I can witness fleets of children bagging leaves.

These neighbors are good neighbors too. In the winter they have often plowed our property even before we wake up. Once when we were away for vacation there was a huge blizzard. We were wondering how we would ever get into the driveway. We arrived to find the driveway shoveled, the walkway clear — everything precise and lovely. Those neighbors are definitely going on the express train to Heaven.

Diagnonally across from our house is Mr. OCD — you can set your clock by his yard work schedule. Every evening from April through November he starts at 5:00 trimming, mowing, weeding, pruning, scissoring, planting. His grass is precision cut. He trims the edges with scissors. He paints his house every three years. He has a different door wreath for each month and at Christmas he hangs pine wreathes from every window and illuminates his house with spotlights. We have lived across the street for twenty years and he has only spoken to me once — when our tree was hit by lightening and fell into the yard next door missing the new construction by about two inches. He said “Well, that was  something” and went indoors.

At the end of the street is the renegade neighbor — the guy who enjoy stirring up the pot. His yard is a mess of weeds and random plantings, accented with a small flock of pink flamingos. The stone stairs leading to his front door were crumbling until he fixed them himself. It was quite clear he got his “how to” advice from the guy with the pryroclastic flow border. The renegade reigned supreme for a long time until a new house was built on the last open lot. The new owners painted it livid purple — I am sure it can be seen from space. But, indeed, the lawn is perfect.

Our house is the comforting “somewhere in the middle” house. The perfectionist neighbors don’t hate us and the oddball and renegade neighbors don’t think we are buying in to the whole Stepford thing. My husband loves those big ceramic pots with colorful enamel glaze. We have lots of them. When it gets a touch warmer we will fill them with plants and flowers. Right now they look like a line of Napoleonic soldiers on their return from Russia (i.e., not so good). I am pumping (pardon the pun) for one of those solar driven bird bath fountains — we would be the first on the block and it would drive the neighbors insane with jealousy.

You Call that Thinking?

Dear Readers: I wish to spare you the embarrassment of chuckling inappropriately. So, for real, someone has actually selected this blog to be in their list of Five Blogs that Make Me Think. This honor is bestowed upon me by Snippets and Blabbery – a roller coaster ride of a blog and one of my favorites. A big thank you and right back at ya! The five beget five more, thus producing a family of blogs well worth exploring.

I don’t want to give you a false impression by saying that I actually think, but if I were to think then I would certainly be inspired by these blogs to do so. My nominations for Five Blogs that Make Me Think are:

1. From Scratch – recipes, thoughts, political cartoons, and a lot more on the burner
2. Sewing Thoughts – passing on the art of sewing
3. Pro Tennis Fan - makes me think about chucking it all in and buying myself a little pro shop
4. Ultimate James Bond Fan Blog – No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to blog
5. The Purse Blog – shallow obsessing; this is so me

Congratulations winners! Spread the joy –here are the rules of joy spreading:  If , and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to five blogs that make you think, and also link to this post so that people can easily find the origin of this award.

Thanks again for the award Abi!

Straight Through the Heart

Night falls fast after too much light of dreams collide
Showering the mind with particles of the vast
Until space is filled dense and dark where stars have died
Where once was promise is now unquiet rest

I watch you sleep and count your shallow breath’s refrain
But know I can not save you or make it right
One dream soars giddy and aloft the other with dull pain
I can but dimly illuminate the night

Standing guard against seduction’s passionate glance
The gravity of stars that will pull you from my grasp
I watch your galaxy’s spiraling dance
That leaves you earthbound and breathless at last

Straight through the heart the stardust piercing falls
Streams of light and darkness create expanding border
I long for your containment within my milky walls
But find instead your universe of disorder

You Is a Punk and Other Words of Love

We rented the Gene Kelly extravaganza Singing in the Rain this weekend for our Saturday movie. Earlier in the day I had been driving with my daughter, with her iPOD hooked up to the car radio listening to her favorite songs. One of her songs stuck with me both because it was good and because its lyrics were so notable. The song was Robyn’s Konichiwa Bitches (which I reference in my Spring Cleaning post) — a ritual mating song in which a sweet young thing flutters her eyelashes at a studly young male. After watching Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds perform the same sort of dance of love, I was struck by how times have changed.

As a lesson in aural anthropology, let’s compare and contrast love song lyrics between Bitches and You Were Meant to Me. In both songs the protagonist is singing to his/her beloved. Let’s start with Bitches:
You wanna rumble in my jungle
I’ll take you on
Stampede your rumpa
And send you home
You wanna rumble in space
I put my laser on stun
And on tha north pole I’ll ice you son

Ok, let’s contrast these opening lyrics with Gene Kelly’s character singing to the feisty Debbie Reynold’s character:

Life was a song,
You came along
I’ve laid awake the whole night through
If I ever dared to think you’d care
This is what I’d say to you

Immediately it is clear to even the densest student that Robyn studied at the Betty Freidan School of Songwriting. Empowered to be on top of things, as it were, the modern songstress no longer has to be shy about asking a fellow for a date. On the other hand, the 1952 film score reflects a prevalent theme for those times: young man alone in bed wishing he were born post-Feminism. Let us go on.

A good academic paper must not only contrast but also compare. It is comforting to note that the more things change the more they stay the same — here are lyrics from Singing in the Rain and then Bitches:

Doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo
Doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo-doo
Doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo-doo
Doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo-doo…

and then:

Konichiwa bitches from Beijing to Siagon
Got nothing on me
‘Cause you know you’re so bum
Dom-didi-dom-didididi-dom-dom

The final lyrics of a song must capture the listener and seal forever the heartfelt essense of the song. In 1952 it was important that love be pure and sanctioned by heavenly angels. Monogamy was the rule (note the somewhat bitter reference to freedom below):

You’re like a plaintive melody
That never lets me free
But I’m content
The angels must have sent you
And they meant you just for me…

Today’s more open standards allow for changing boyfriends on a more frequent basis (daily as in the case of Bitches):

You know when shit is getting heavy
Like it’s weights a ton
I will run you down like a marathon
Tape you up good
Put you in the trunk
See you next Tuesday
You is a punk

In conclusion, modern lyrics are a reflection of the post-Feminist agenda in which flirting with punks is permissible on Tuesdays as long as one maintain a healthy body and mind through exercise and the study of foreign languages. This is a radical break from the morally hidebound fifties in which young men had no outlets for their romantic urges outside the bounds of marriage except for dancing in the rain — either alone or with other likewise repressed men. This thesis is expressed in yet another song from Singing in the Rain (Fit as a Fiddle):

Soon all the church bells will be ringing
And I’ll march with Ma and Pa.
All the church bells will be ringing,
With a hey naughty-knotty and a hotcha-cha darling.

and clearly contrasts with the Feminist agenda of self-worth, empowerment, and celebration of cultural diversity as expressed by Bitches stunning lyrics:

Hit the gong-gong
Bring the sumos on
I’m ‘a kick ass all the way to hongkong
Make their balls bounce like a game of ping-pong
Konichiwa bitches from Beijing to Siagon
Got nothing on me
‘Cause you know you’re so bum
Dom-didi-dom-didididi-dom-dom

Spring Cleaning

I wrote the following post this morning and decided midway through the day to go back and do a reality check on how events have actually unfolded. The text in black is the original post. The colored text is the What Really Happened:

Yesterday marked the official beginning of Spring Cleaning with two signal events — I went to the dentist for teeth cleaning and the landscaper came to our house to clean up from the ravages of winter. Such a great start is being reinforced by the gorgeous weather we expect for today, so it is into the attic I go to ferret out my Spring/Summer wardrobe.

Task number one is to put away my winter clothes and find out just how bad my Spring outfits look. I vaguely remember last Fall when I put them away that I did not take the time to fold them neatly and thinking to myself  “I will hate myself in April.” I guess I am in for some self-loathing today. But I don’t care, the sun is shining, the air is fresh, my teeth are clean!

Yes, I do hate myself. There are more wrinkles in my clothes than I can handle. I will have to be mature and wash everything and stand over the dryer to be able to extract the items at the precise moment when they are dry and wrinkle free. I guess while I am watching the dryer I will roll quarters so that I can buy myself a steamer. So much for going outside.

I store my clothes in plastic tubs in the attic. That way any small creatures that get into them will not be able to steal them to make housing. Instead they will most likely perish along side my crop pants and I will get a nasty surprise. Perhaps I will pay my daughter to unpack the bins this year. Unpacking the bins is an annual exercise in despair. Not only am I upset at the delicate balance of nature, but I also become upset at discovering that I have nothing to wear. This year I am going to throw out all the lime green items — do I really expect a return to the seventies? The orange things I will keep in case I want to go bike riding in the dark.

Happily there was only mouse poop in one of the bins. No corpses. I guess it was $20 well spent to have Alli do the initial looksee. I did throw out a lot of stuff, mostly pants. In order to fit my sizable rear end I buy big pants. So while my rear is properly attired my legs look like I am wearing clown pants. I decided that this year I was going for the Konichiwa Bitches approach — “Right now you probably thinking how she get in them jeans, Well I’m gifted all natural and bursten the seams.”

Once I have tidied my closets I will tackle the kitchen. Wash the walls, go through the cabinets. I am starting the day with strong resolve that any gadgets that have not been used in ten years are going to the dumpster –  I am sorry ravioli press, that means you. And I need to figure out a system for storing my storage containers. Are there storage containers for storage containers? Where does that end? I guess I will also spend some time looking for the source of the moths . . .

To laugh that I will ever get to the kitchen except to make lunch. The moths have a reprieve. As an excuse to go outside I decided I had to buy some of those hangers that prevent clothes from slipping off. And since Linen’s ‘N Things is in the mall I felt it important to make good use of my time there and stop by Marshalls. Now I am tired.

If I have any energy left over I will go through the book shelves and trim the collection. Our local Starbucks has a bookshelf where patrons can leave and borrow books. I am sure they will appreciate my donation of Romance novels. Our upstairs hallway is lined with bookshelves housing our Murder Mystery collection. I am especially fond of British writers and those will stay. I think Ann Rice will go as will all the books on teaching yourself magic.

It is clear to me now why we have so many books since book reduction is always on the To Do list after closets. But I am really serious this year about paring down on our stuff. After dinner I am putting a bag of books in the trunk. For real. Absolutely.

It promises to be such a lovely day that, actually, the thought of staying indoors and working is losing its appeal. Perhaps instead I will head to Mahoney’s Garden Center and do some serious damage in the plant department.

Well, I surprised myself with my diligence. I actually did clean my closet with only one trip to the Mall. No garden center. Now if I can manage to finish the job by putting the winter clothes in the attic instead of leaving them in their bins in the bedroom for three months I will be very pleased with myself and my husband will make some comment like “My God” to express his admiration.

Susan’s Shoes

My good friend Susan is a shoe hound — I bet she has well over one hundred pairs. She buys them three or four at a time but always on sale — mostly from Georges where they have her name on a plaque above the cash register. She wears stylish, fun shoes in fun shapes and fabrics. Some of her shoes are outlandish — on her tiny feet they look like little masterpieces of style.

I have noticed that when Susan wears especially “interesting” shoes she tends to wear all black or grey clothing. Yesterday she had on a sort of ballet flat style, combining tiger print and patent leather. She can describe the difference between a slide, a mule, a d’Orsay pump, a kitten heel, and a wedge. She owns no loafers. She does own shoes with boa feathers and several pair that will be handy if she is ever abandoned on an island. All these shoes are stored in her closet in their original boxes.

Susan is having a crisis in shoe storage — there is no more room. The addition they put on the house is full. Shoe organization is now key. She says she has no particular storage and retrieval system but I don’t believe her. The Manolo Public Library discovered a few years ago that a half dozen or so of its old wooden card catalog drawers were missing — I think I know where at least one of them is. Susan’s cards read something like this: Season/Spring, Color/Multi, Fabric/Leather with Small Resin Trolls.

A couple of times a year she rotates her shoes so that the proper season’s are at the front of her shelving system. It is during these times that she takes stock of her collection. If a pair of shoes has not been worn for at least two cycles of being in fashion (which equates to approximately 17 years) then she donates it to the Goodwill center located on Madison Avenue. Some years ago Susan made an arrangement with Georges Shoe Store whereby they came to her house and electronically wired a sensor system to her closet shelves which feeds to their marketing department. When through donation or acts of God the number of shoe boxes drops below 121, the sensor takes note and sends a spike to the George’s early warning system in Marketing. This triggers the Postcard.

“SALE — George’s Shoes invites you to a private sale on Thursday morning between 9:00 and 11:00. Our sales staff is eager to serve you. As always valet parking is available and the U-Haul fleet will be standing by. Looking forward to seeing you!” Susan cancels all Thursday’s meetings, informing her boss that she is required for urgent personal business.

I have accompanied Susan to Georges even though I am much less a shoe person.  I wear practical, comfy shoes of the type that makes me immediately dismissable by the fashionistas. When Susan and I go shopping she is flocked by the sales staff. Wearing practical shoes to Georges is like wearing the cloak of invisibility — no sales person can see you — I am ignored. So I get to watch Susan’s shopping technique. Briefly described it is “gather up every pair of size 6 and try them on. Reject three pair, put two on hold, buy the rest.” The last time Susan went to Georges, in addition to buying four pairs of shoes she bought a handbag. This is not a good thing.

Susan’s husband has a lovely home office. I wonder why she was measuring it for shelving?

One Month Old and The Duct Tape is Holding

Sunday April 22nd will mark the one month anniversary of the Breakdown in the Fast Lane blog. We reached the 1000 hit milestone last week — a modest metric but still one that makes me smile. Looking back at the outpouring of essays, it is hard to believe a) there was so much tap water in the faucet,  b) that it took me so long to turn on the tap and c) that there are a bunch of folks out there who have such refined intelligence and good looks that they actually read my posts. So, Dear Readers, I want to express my thanks for your support and your interest. I am especially grateful to those of you who took the time to comment (even to my husband despite his faint praise). And a special thanks to ellaella who turned me on to blogging — you have saved me a bundle in therapy bills.

Many of my essays are “light humor” — the world is a funny place. It can also be a dark place and from time to time I will go there. But mostly I am a half-full kinda gal. Thank you again for sticking with me! Your time is precious and I am honored that you spend some of it with me.

Goofus and Galant

It is 1957 and Lin is in the dentist’s waiting room, flipping through Highlights for Children, disgusted and repelled by the goatish behavior of that cad of the Middle Class — Galant. What kind of repressed, sexist, brown-nosed obsequiosity were they trying to foist on me as a lesson in proper behavior? Take a walk Galant; give me that hostile, burping bad boy Goofus any time. Goofus was to me the James Dean of children’s illustrations — the promise of excitement and maybe even detention. He made Bad look good.

Despite the fact that I won my school’s good citizenship award in the seventh grade, I was in fact a rebel. I grant you I was a quiet rebel but don’t let the appearance of wanting to please all my teachers lead you to a false impression. While my friends rode around in their Barbie Corvette’s, I rode my Harley. They planned their weddings. I planned a rumble. Goofus, such a nasty lad, so misunderstood. How could a magazine get it so wrong? I was glad when the ’sixties put things right and exposed the Galants of the world. Galant at Woodstock, yah right. Just picture him wallowing naked in the mud.

So many years have passed since I last saw Goofus. I heard he entered the ministry and now has a congregation in Long Island. I guess I am not surprised. And Galant got married and did all the right things. He is retired and has moved to Naples, Florida to play golf. I ended up marrying young and despite all odds I stayed married. I knew I had chosen wisely when my husband did a stint as a bouncer in a Hell’s Angels bar. I got my bad boy and I am happy.

Damning with Faint Praise

I must have been very bad in a past life — evidence of this sneaks up at me when I am off guard and gets me evey time. Tonight, for instance, we went out for Chinese food. We had a great meal and were in jolly spirits when the check and accompanying fortune cookies arrived. My husband took the first cookie: “Your scars will become stars.” Nice! Then my daughter took hers: “You have artistic sensibilities.” Wow, accurate! My turn: “You are not illiterate.” Ah, um, well gee thanks . . .

My insecurities firmly reinforced by the mean-spirited fortune cookie, my brain conjured up memories of other times in which I received such fulsome praise. I once worked for a woman who had a favorite among us girls in the office. She would always talk about how good Sally was at her job or how nice she looked. One afternoon she was going on and on about how pretty Sally was and she must have noticed that either I was having a seizure or I was rolling my eyes really, really far back in my head as a means of expressing that enough was enough. The boss said, “Oh Lin, I don’t mean to slight you by talking about how pretty Sally is. I have always noticed that you have nice hands.” Nice hands, that was the best she could do.

Once I wrote a poem that I thought was a work of genius. Like all good writers I shoved it  in front of any one I could con or force into reading it, including my best friend. She read it slowly and said, “That is nice. I like the font you chose too.” William Shakespeare never had to suffer fools . . . In the same vein, my very first comment in this blog says “It is mildly humorous.” Oh, thanks a lot — and my husband wrote that!

So, I really apologize for whateve nasty things I did in previous lifetimes. But I think I have now done my time, as it were, in Faint Praise State Prison. Let’s hear some enthusiastic talk about my naturally wavy hair and finely crafted prose for a change. Write to me with compliments — after all, I ain’t no illiterate person ya know.

Acronyms ‘R Us

I work from home and share my home office with my daughter, which means that she has to listen to my hours of teleconferences being broadcast on my speakerphone. After a recent call she remarked that during the hour-long call there were only a handful of actual words spoken — the rest were acronyms. “I am the PDTL of CB which will MTP in July, implementing changes in PILO that will require ASCA.” For those of you who do not understand what I just said, CB is a process for manufacturing CS4s — I am sure you have got it now.

Working in the high tech industry one would expect to find acronyms; techies love them. When we start a project, at least three days of the week-long kickoff workshop are dedicated to coming up with a snappy acronym for the project name (see my post PIGS). There are criteria that must be met — three letters are better than four and you get extra points if your acronym is witty (such as SLOB — Single Log-On Batch). But acronyms seem to crop up in all aspects of my life. So I got to thinking about how this linguistic phenomena developed. There were no acronyms in early history — life was simple and concepts were simple. “Descend from trees and drag knuckles” is pretty straightforward — there is no need for DaD (Descend and Drag for those of you who have not yet had coffee).

By ancient Roman times life was sufficiently complex that the first sprinkling of acronyms appear in Latin. SPQR, for example, makes grappling with The Roman Senate feasible for the local olive grower. In fact the Romans got into acronyms in a big way. “Good night dear, don’t forget that tomorrow we have to be at the Colesseum by six o’clock.” “Sweetie, Would that be anti meridiem or post meridiem?” Thus the birth of AM and PM.

But as we know, the Roman Empire declined and with it so did the flurry of acronymiszing. The Dark Ages of initializing lasted until the Depression at which time the Government needed to make sure its populace could understand all the special works it was doing to ensure a return  to prosperity. We all know what IRS stands for and that by the time we retire there will be no more SSA because they spent all our retirement funds on NASA.

To assess just how widespread acronyms are, I decided to examine an area least likely to be subject to this form of shortening — cooking. Indeed, after a false start wondering why the CIA had a cooking web site (it was, in fact, the Culinary Institute of America), I found very few cooking related acronyms. Yes, dear readers, this bold statement is designed to promote Reader Mail — I hope you inundate me with examples of CRASHOFF (Cuisine Related Acronyms Showing Off) and NaNa (‘Nother Acronym etc.).

In the meantime I will be worrying about the cost of our linguistic partying. Surely the Government, being the biggest acronymn producer, must have a huge and costly AGB (Acronym Generator Bureau) with all sorts of production capabilities and policing departments. I need to seriously weigh the cost versus time impact of eliminating Federal acronyms. Say in an average work day in the United States the term “NATO” is typed into a system 34,000 times at a worker cost of $87,000 and we replaced it with typing “North American Treaty Organization” at a cost of $94,000 . . .

Which Side of the Law is Your Butter On?

Generally speaking, if someone presents me with evidence that something is bad for me I do the rational thing and avoid it. I do have a strong desire to continue living. This is normal adult behavior. I really don’t think I need anyone else to make the choice for me. However, our Government seems to be thinking otherwise.

New York City recently banned restaurants from cooking with artificial trans fats, citing that even small amounts significantly contributed to heart attack. Even butter, which contains small amounts of these trans fats, is banned — to be substituted with palm oil. “I’d like a lobster with drawn palm oil please.” Personally, I am reeling with this news. I have not yet gotten over their replacing lard with shortening in my Oreos.

Where do we draw the line in our Government’s acting to protect us from ourselves? First it was booze and Prohibition. You think someone might have noticed that that was a bad idea — let’s promote organized crime in the guise of keeping you sober. Then tobacco — you can’t actually smoke anywhere on the planet but you can still buy cigarettes. I don’t get that! Red dye number something will certainly kill you (if you eat forty three million red hots) so let’s get rid of that by all means. But loading up on Splenda, Equal, or Sweet & Low is fine. Butter is a no no but sugar is okey dokey. Heart attack is on the agenda, diabetes is not. Who decides on our behalf anyway? I don’t recall actually electing anyone to the office of For Your Own Good.

Gosh, I am over twenty one. I can vote and be sent off to war. I can raise kids and I can even pay taxes. But I can’t have butter in my Manhattan clam chowder? Oooh, maybe it is those toxic fumes that waft off the butter as it melts onto the potato! Secondary butter . . . how awful. I am beginning to picture exclusive co-op buildings in New York City illicitly housing cows in the green spaces so that the residents can milk them and churn butter hidden away from the watchful eye of the law.

What comes after butter? Bye bye Club Med  . . . people will be encouraged to be out in the sun and we all know what that means. Radiology departments? Na-ah — radiation exposure is bad for you. The job? Sorry, but we noticed you were stressed so we banned it for your own good. You’ll have to make money some other way. It is not like the Government is out of hand with the Big Brother thing. There are lots of things they think are OK for us to have. Guns are fine, so quit whining. Only half the number of people die from guns (that would be about 30,000 annually in the U.S.) as from heart attack so by all means leave that alone.

Where do you think we should draw the line in allowing Government to dictate what we can and can not do to our bodies? If butter is not OK what else is next?

Filing Taxes

There will be no posts this weekend as I prepare my taxes
Searching dot IRS and dot GOV for the forms I lackses
Procrastination was my game and now I must pay the piper
For the long haul ahead I’d better wear a diaper

But first I must clean my desk and have a cup of coffee
I will get Starbuck’s extra bold Mocha Java Toffee
And then perhaps I’ll need to sort my compact disc collection
Knowing it is out of synch will cause too much distraction

I’ll start with the joint return because it is fundamental
And allows me to deduct for all expenses dental
Where did I put the shoebox with all those itemizations
That will save me twenty bucks unless I run into limitations

If you are over fifty and your name is Lin then turn to section thirty
Fill out the worksheet and you’ll see that the rules are dirty
I earn too much to get tax breaks and too little to live well
But despite that state I am required to go through all this hell

I will do my best to wade through the monumental pile of instructions
Praying to find some place where I can take deductions
I have saved all year for this chance to give the Fed my money
So please, when I call IRS support just do not call me honey

I guess there will be no blogging or blog readers this weekend
For I am not alone in putting off this task that sends me round the bend
My best to you as you start the horrors I am sharing
If I prepare my taxes wrong I really am past caring

The QVC Cruise: Part 4 (The Whiners)

I want to step back for a moment from my travelogue and report that not all was smooth sailing on the MSC Opera. There were some cruisers who were Upset, very upset. They did not enjoy the cruise in any way shape or form. I guess that anytime you cram 2000 people into close quarters for a week you are bound to encounter some who see the glass half empty and who find something wrong with just about everything. There happened to be a very vocal bunch on this cruise and one could hear them complaining to anyone who would listen. They would approach a stranger and say something like “Isn’t this the worst cruise you have ever been on?” And if the response was “Well no, I am having a blast.” they would give a snort and move on looking for a sympathetic ear. Some of their complaints were gems.

To preserve my journalistic integrity I must remind you (again) that I had won the cruise and so may be predisposed to look favorably on QVC and its affiliates. However, being a prize winner does not mean that I automatically lose my ability to be rational. So, I will try to give a straightforward and unbiased account of these obnoxious people’s whining.

The following list of their complaints are real — I did not make any of them up:

The whine: “I arrived at the embarkation point at 10 AM and had to wait until 3 PM  before I could board.” The Read the Instructions retort: the packet of information we received says Embarkation begins at 3:00 PM. Hello? Hello?

 The whine: “When I got to my room there was a piece of dry toast on the floor under the bed. I left it there to see how long it would take the cleaning staff to remove it.” The unbiased retort: Obviously, since you left it there in a monumental act of passive aggression, you have little concern for sanitation so why are you complaining?

The whine: “They charged for bottled water! I became seriously dehydrated.” The Snappy retort: Well, ya. But the tap water was free, the coffee and tea were free as were the Coke and juice. Hello?

The whine: “We had to have a security escort when we went horseback riding in the Dominican Republic.” The Eyes Rolling to the Back of the Head retort: You would rather not have had a security escort? Were you disappointed that the list of excursions did not include “Scenic Abduction by Local Thugs — Ransom Optional”

The whine: “QVC did not give away enough freebees!” The We Live in a Disgustingly Spoiled Society retort: Did I not see you win a digital camera in the raffle last night? Were the nightly gifts left on the bed not to your liking? Did you bring an empty suitcase in expectation of getting a toaster oven? Gold?

The whine: “I was so bored I spent the entire cruise surfing the Net in the computer lounge.” The retort: You are actually admitting this paucity of imagination in public?

The whine: “The food was awful” The retort: I thought so too.

My apologies to cruisers who had legitimate complaints, but these other whiners give complaining a bad name.

In Part 5 we will return to happpier thoughts and travel to St. Thomas for some jewelry shopping and a submarine excursion.

How I Got My Stetson

I did a short stint as a managing editor for a company that was going through a bizarre identity crisis. Made famous as a publisher of Eastern philosophy and religion, it had recently appointed a new publisher and the new boss was star-struck. He was in love with anything Hollywood and knew no creative boundaries in trying to blend Hollywood with Eastern Philosophy. What you say?

I have to admit the guy struck gold the first time out. He signed up David Carradine to publish his book Spirit of Shaolin– a combo Hollywood Kung Fu expose and spiritual discourse. Please, you all remember the classic “Kung Fu” TV series. David Carradine played the lead — Caine/Grasshopper the Shaolin priest roaming the wild American West, kung fu fighting only when reason failed (which it always did).

I had the great pleasure of being sent to California to work with Mr. Carradine on his manuscript. He was quite serious about its spiritual aspects and I felt compelled to be pretty darn sure I was on the same wavelength. I studied Chinese Shaolin philosophy on the plane one more time — finally giving up in the realization that a cram course was not going to do any good.

David and I met up in the bar at the hotel where I was staying and checked each other out warily. I had never met a real star before and was prepared to find a shallow person — instead I found a complex one. And I think Mr. Carradine was suspect that a sweet young thing was going to be of any help at all.  I was decked out in masses of very high quality Native American jewelery (which my mother had collected in the 1940s), jeans and a crisp white shirt. Boston meets The West. I had put a lot of thought into what to wear, of course, and I made the right choice. I might have been young and sweet but I was also styl’n!

We drove to the Carradine ranch in the Hollywood hills where we met up with his wife and set up the manuscript war room in his dining room. David declared that we were not leaving until his manuscript was exactly as he wanted it to be. (And I was there to ensure that the manuscript was also exactly as the publisher wanted it to be.) Mrs. Carradine kept us supplied with alternating carrot juice and wine — we got simultaneously fortified and sloshed. The room filled with cigarette smoke and empty glasses but we were making good progress.

Breaking the “no leaving” rule we decided to head out for dinner and piled into a huge junk pile of a vintage car that had seen better days. David drove and I sat in the middle wedged between him and his wife. I was glad that there was a great deal of metal between me and the rest of the world as we careened down the winding slope to a strip mall. The Carradine’s took me to their favorite local Mexican restaurant. Heads turned as we walked in and David dropped by a couple of tables happy to give the diners a celebrity moment.

Halfway through dinner Mrs Carradine grabbed my hand and said let’s go. I don’t know what motivated this impulsivity but despite David’s protests she literally pulled me outside of the restaurant to go next door to a Mexican grocery store. It was obvious that she was a regular customer since she took me right out back through the swinging doors into the kitchen where they were preparing tamales and chicken. She insisted that I take tamales and chicken back to Boston. I will go into the logistical difficulties with that in a bit. She also loaded me up with mole, enchilada sauce, corn tortillas, and some fiery hot sauce. Loaded down with two shopping bags teaming with steaming food and cans we went back to the restaurant.

David refused to return to working on the manuscript until we took a tour of the ranch.  It being night I can only tell you that I met up with horses and fences. The inside of the ranch was homey and unpretentious. I liked it a lot. He also brought out his Native American jewlery collection and we compared notes. When he went to put back his stuff I was settling down to return to work.  David returned with a Stetson hat lined with silk printed with a picture of horses. He plunked it on my head and  he said “I want you to have this.” Simple as that.

By the time we finished the manuscript my eyes were on fire and as dry as stones. My body ached from no sleep and too much booze. I was past caring about editorial decision making. All I wanted to do was to get to my hotel room and sleep. Dawn was breaking as we drove me back to the hotel. I slept for a few precious hours before I had to pack and get to the airport.

Packing . . . how does one pack fresh tamales and chicken for a plane trip? Being overly tired I mistook my idea for brilliance — I went down to the ice machine and filled a number of those ice bucket plastic bags with ice and put them along with the tamales and chicken in a white trash bag I fished out of the trash bin in the bathroom. Into the suitcase it all went. I really did not give too much thought to the melting factor of a six hour plane trip. Stetson on my head I headed home.

Upon arrival in Boston I waited at the luggage carousel as the suitcases came down the conveyor. I heard a rise in the general muttering noise and saw a bit of pointing as the bags came around. My bag was leaking rather badly, leaving a stream of growing dimensions  in its wake. It also was reeking of cumin and Tabasco. People were already looking my way somehow sensing that the lady in the Stetson surely had something to do with the Mexican waterfall. I pretended that this was perfectly normal and casually took my bag off the carousel and made my exit. The cabbie was none too happy to put my sodden smelly bag in his trunk but I gave him ten bucks and he shut up about it.

This little espisode was the beginning of a brief but entertaining relationship with David Carradine in which he would call me every day to exchange recipes and otherwise chat. It lasted until I moved on to another publishing firm — one that did not look to the stars. David went on to star in the short-lived modern day Kung Fu and then found renewed stardom in Kill Bill. His stetson and an autographed copy of his book sit on my shelf as reminders of this unique friendship.

Sixty Dollar Cat Toys — When Will We Learn?

For our daughter’s first Christmas my husband and I went overboard at Toys ‘R Us buying every cute and/or educational toy they had. Short on an understanding of just how unappreciative a six month old brain can be, we also wrapped each gift in holiday paper, ribbons, and bows. As all of you parents out there have already predicted, our precious tyke sat amongst the sea of Big Bird Santa paper and boxes and howled, overwhelmed by the unexpected change in her environment. Once we unwrapped everything for her, she had a great morning playing with the empty boxes.

Fast forward to this past weekend. With husband and daughter in tow, we hit Pets ‘R Us to select some toys for our new family member Nero the kitty. Alli picks out a catnip turtle and Lorne chooses a cardboard incline with a scratch pad and dangle mouse. OK so far. I  immediately spot an elaborate two-tiered climbing structure with dangling teaser balls. It looks like it was designed by Antoni Gaudi and costs $60. I would not leave the store without it, totally convinced that Nero will love, love, love it!

Flush with excitement I set the cat climber down in the living room encouraged by my daugher’s comments — “Oh, yeah, a turquoise carpeted birch tree sculpure looks real nice in the living room.” I fetch Nero and plunk him down on level one. He freezes and then instantly arches his back while taking a space walk, landing in full defensive posture facing the enemy. I go and wiggle some of the dangling balls, coaxing him with sweet talk. “Nero kitty, big boy, you are not afraid of the toy are you?” Well, ya, he is.

To make matters worse, Nero loves the catnip turtle and the scratchpad incline with the dangle mouse. So I have to listen to “I told you so” guff about wasting sixty dollars. Finally in the late evening, Nero makes a tentative approach to the “toy” and baps one of the balls. He beats an immediate retreat to watch the result from safety. I am hoping that the kitty will continue to go boldly where no man has gone before, eventually to actually enjoy the fullness of exploration. Until then, the sixty dollar cat toy will have to wait . . . or perhaps I could smear it with catnip . . .

Dear Reader — as a happy postscript, immediately upon writing this post I went downstairs to get a cup of coffee and found the little terror playing happily on his $60 toy! When was he going to let me know? Now I am wondering whether my daughter pulled that plastic caterpillar around the house when I was putting the roast in the oven? In any event, it is a good start to the day when I get to say “I told you so” right back!

The “Health” Club

Each month over $100 is automatically withdrawn from my bank account and transferred into the coffers of a hoity toity sports/health club. That money does not include tennis court fees, guest fees, nor my tennis lessons. It only covers the cost of my using the facility to injure myself on a regular basis. As I write, the current injuries include a stress fracture of the foot (tennis) and sore muscles (over-exercising). The more I use the club the more injuries I sustain the more I need the services of a personal trainer . . .  at an additional $84 an hour. And then, of course, there is the adjunct spa on the premises which I utilize far more often when I am feeling sorry for myself. Poor little foot . . . we need a nice pedicure don’t we? Did I fail to mention the club cafe where half a wasabi and tuna sandwich on whole wheat is $3.99 — when one is injured it is difficult to cook for oneself so the cafe sucks down my money a lot harder than I suck in my tummy on the ab bench .

Why then is this called a “health” club? It greatly adds to my stress to be under such pressure to make the most of my membership dollars. You must get there every day. You must do aerobic activity for at least half an hour. You must increase the reps on the abductor. You must get a good bonus each year to pay for it. You must look good in spandex. Heck! And a person with my limited athletic talent should not be encouraged to pivot, turn, stretch, run, slice, become airborne, and land in a split step exactly a tennis racquet’s length from the net while never taking my eye off the ball. That is just a hospital visit waiting to happen.

Let’s talk about my routine. I start on on the reclining bike and do the 20 minute fat-reducing routine. The bike has a digital display of RPMs, heart rate, time elapsed, and calories burned. After 20 minutes I have burned 11 calories. There are 3000 calories in a pound of fat. Do the math. I will die of old age before I have lost ten pounds. The bike has a book stand and a water bottle holder on top of the digital display. The book stand is 43 inches from my eyes — I don’t know about you, but at that distance I would need the book to be set in 24 point type in order to read it.  I am happy to move on to the exercise table for pelvic tilts.

The exercise table is my favorite part of my routine. I can lay down for one. Leg lifts, pelvic tilts and “the bridge” form my table top exercises. I am glad the exercise table is in a somewhat removed area of the gym since the tilt and bridge combo looks rather like I am practicing for an activity that burns rather more calories. I have learned to disguise this by adding leg lifts to the sequence — tilt bridge leg lift — as a means of preserving my modesty.

Yesterday I rather over-did it with the exercise equipment. I was doing fine with a wimpy 15 pounds on the hip abductor so I thought I could up the weight a little. Going right to 50 pounds was a mistake. By dinner time my outer thighs hurt a lot and I had to perch on the couch arms to watch TV since if I sat on the couch itself I was not going to be able to get up again. And when I was doing the bicep curls with the thin yellow rubber band one of the fitness pros was watching me so I felt compelled to show off by doing 100 repetitions. Today my arm is somewhat like the Peter Sellers character Dr. Strangelove’s.

The club used to have a bar. I don’t know whether that increased or deceased the percentage of injured members. But at least we had somewhere to hang out when we were side-lined. They say a glass of wine a day is good for your health.

It Depends

A cyberpal of mine is going to see Tom Jones in concert this weekend. A bunch of us gals were exchanging posts about the fact that Mr. Jones is getting old (as are we). Of course the conversation degenerated into talk of tossing our undies on stage. Being at least as old as the once hot Welshman and fat to boot, I fear that tossing  my over-sized Spanky Pants might injure the entertainer –  so I asked my friend whether, if I sent her some Depends, she would toss them on stage for me. It seemed more appropriate for our age bracket anyway.

That is the second time I have used Depends in my blog in a dark humor sort of way.  I got to wondering if there is a corpus of Depends humor on the Internet. Of course there is! From netfunny.com — “My ninety year old grandfather complained the other day: The worst part about getting old is diapers. I don’t mind wearing ‘em, t’s that name I hate — Depends. If I gotta wear a diaper I don’t want no “depends” about it. I want “fer certain”!

From funnybusiness.typepad.com — “How long does it take to drive from Houston to Orlando?  Answer — it Depends!” The Depends humor market is currently overrun with astronut jokes leaving old folks some much needed time off.

While we are on the topic of humor, you may be surprised to learn there is also a fair amount of Tom Jone’s jokes on the Web. “Doctor, doctor, I can’t stop singing What’s New Pussy Cat.” “Ah, it seems like you have Tom Jones syndrome.” “Well, I’ve never heard of that, is it common?” “It’s not unusual” the doctor replied.

The QVC Cruise: Part 3 (San Juan)

 Two magnificent days on the high seas brought us into San Juan harbor at about 4:30 AM. I am always awake early and was sitting in the dark on the balcony enjoying the unique experience of being surrounded by a vast black ocean and the sounds of waves. In the distance I spotted first one light and then several and then many as we turned into the harbor. Through the darkness I could barely make out where the land met the sea. Puerto Rico!

This was to be our first port of call and, more importantly,  the day in which QVC was to film live from San Juan and we were going to be there! QVC had given each of us a special navy and white tropical tee shirt to wear that day along with a red tote bag. We must have looked like a steady stream of colorful ants as we descended the precarious stairs along the side of the ship to take the tenders to shore. The live broadcast site was right on the harbor at the end of a long plaza lined with flowering trees and porta-potties (set up in expectation of the QVC crowd) — I wondered why there were so many of them. Usually the ratio is like one toilet for every 150 people at an event. The ratio on the Pottie Plaza seemed like one for every ten. Does QVC stand for Quick! Void Coming! to the Johnny-on-the-Spot maintenance staff?. Despite the colonnade of temporary toilets, San Juan was gorgeous.

By the time my daughter and I arrived at the area set up for the audience there were probably five or six hundred people already there. We found seats and scanned the scene for interesting happenings. Amost immediately I spotted Sally, the Birkenstocks lady. There was absolutely no way I was going to miss meeting Sally and having a photo opportunity — I joined the line of admirers waiting for a chance to meet her. I admit that I am one of those callers who says “Oh, I only wear Birks, I have 37 pair.” I gushed when at last it was my turn. And I have got to tell you, Sally was just about the nicest person you could meet. She gave me a huge hug and a real smile. You rock Sally!

David Venable showed up to work the audience and he was just as much fun as he is on TV. Halfway through his routine there was suddenly a loud commotion and the plaza next to us filled up with musicians and dancers wearing traditional  dress. This entertainment while starting off cue, was a fabulous addition to the day brought to us by the Puerto Rico Tourist Board. This was the stuff a good vacation is made of and I was sad when they  departed blowing kisses and waving to the crowd.

The live broadcast began and we stayed long enough to get the flavor but frankly we were sitting too far away to really get the most out of it so we decided to head off and explore San Juan. Luckily my daughter is fluent in Spanish since we had absolutely no idea which direction to head off in. We found a policeman and followed his pointing finger up a very steep hill.

I was still needing a cane since my knee replacement was only a few month old, so the walk up the hill would have done me in if it were not for the fact that it ended at a plaza where we could get cold drinks and sit for a spell. We were not in San Juan to seek out history — we were there to shop and to eat. As luck would have it  we stumbled upon an excellent place for lunch and had delicious food that tasted authentic (i.e., it did not taste like the food at Taco Bell). The restaurant claimed to be the originator of the Pina Colada so of course we had to see what the hullabaloo was about. It was about putting a warm glow on the rest of the day. Fortified we set out again to shop.

We ended up at Marshalls. Yes it is true. My daughter bought a jacket since it was cool at night on the ship. We did not buy a single touristy item. The shame of it still reddens my cheeks. My personal failings are not a reflection of San Juan’s worthiness as a shopper’s paradise. The Coach and Dooney outlets alone were worth the price of the cruise. (Let’s not quibble and remind me that I had won the cruise. OK?) We walked every meter of San Juan’s cobble stone streets and looked in every store. Every where we went we met other QVC cruisers all readily identifiable in their navy tee shirts and red totes. I met up with one of the ladies I  had met on the Cruise Critics message boards. She had obviously discovered the long lost Fountain of Pina Coladas in some shaded and remote part of the city.

We had  promised to meet our shipboard dinner mates at Senor Frogs for some real Puerto Rican chow. We got completely lost trying to find it and were only saved when a nice local woman told us to follow her. We were a bit concerned when she took us into an office building and into the elevator. But when we emerged in the basement there was Senor Frogs! The Tennesee ladies were already there hoovering nachos and the ladies from Maryland were showing off their new jewelery and knockoff handbag purchases. Alli and I ordered the famous Yard Long Pina Coladas and some enchiladas. Senor Frogs is rowdy, fun, and about as authentic as my Spanish accent. We had a blast. It was time to head back to make the last tender to the ship. We were on our way to St. Thomas and more shopping!

Meditation Music, Incense, Green Tea, and Torture…$40

Let me preface this report with a brief history of self-mortification: Jainists, Spartans, Medieval Monks, those willing to undergo Deep Tissue Massage.

Cyberspace does not allow for me to package the following information in a trifold brochure, suitable for placing in those doctors’ office wall racks — otherwise I would certainly present my material in that manner. Please assist me in this serious public service by visualizing yourself getting a paper cut as you read:

Spa Treatment Causes Woman to Need Sick Day from Work

The Swedish Massage Spa Workers of  America filed a class action suit alleging misleading advertising yesterday after one of their rival organizations, the Therapeutic Massage Arts Collective, launched an advertising campaign featuring the slogans “No Pain No Gain” and “Stop! In the Name of Love”.  At the center of the controversy is thirty-five year old Dulcie McLivett, who came to the Zen Gardens Spa in Cedar Hills, Nevada as a spa novice. Unfamiliar with the important distinctions between Swedish and Theapeutic massage, she opted for the therapeutic after hearing the ad campaign on the radio. In a tearful interview, Ms McLivett stated “They made it sound so relaxing. There was the sound of a waterfall in the background and chirping birds. The spa lady offered me tea and then she began to hurt me bad.” Unable to go on with the interview Ms McLivett’s cousin reported that as a result of the deep tissue massage Ms McLivett missed a day of work. “She is really traumatized.”

In an attempt to avoid a prolonged legal battle, the TMAC agreed to sponsor a wide-spread educational campaign about Deep Tissue Massage. Every person contemplating a spa massage should familiarize herself with this information:

1. At the start of your appointment, if you are handed a diagram of a human being and are asked to circle where you hurt then you will be getting a deep tissue massage. This is not a before and after quiz. The after diagram is precircled for you — around the entire figure.
2. When the therapist says “when the pain gets to an eight on a scale of one to ten tell me to stop” you should INSTEAD tell her to stop when it gets to six.
3. If the therapist has an upper arm circumference greater than that of her thighs ask for a different appointment.
4. If you smell ether mixed with the incense ask for an explanation.
5. If the massage room has bite rags leave immediately.
6. Know your rights and be an educated consumer.

Do not be overly alarmed — it is just that having once been a spa novice myself and having experienced the awesome pain of deep tissue massage that was designed to make me feel better, I felt that it would be doing a service to bring the issue to your attention. It is OK to choose pain if that is what you want. But if you are looking for some soothing relaxation, I don’t want you to be disappointed (or hurt).

Small print — all names of people and organizations are entirely fictional. Massage therapists please do not be angry with me.

The QVC Cruise: Part 2 (Quacker Factory Sets Sail)

 You know what a huge pain it is when your plane is delayed and 200 of you are trapped at the gate waiting for an hour and then you all have to squeeze into the cramped plane waiting for the slowskis to stow their luggage. Well, picture this . . . 2000 QVC cruisers milling about in the embarkation hanger for two or three hours waiting to begin the boarding process. Those of us who were lucky were inside sitting on metal folding chairs. The unlucky were waiting outside in a long queue in the hot sun. It was a particularly bad weekend in the Ft. Lauderdale area for security threats and Homeland Security was making sure it was safe to travel, thus the delay.  On the bright side, the long wait gave me plenty of time to check out my fellow travellers. Approximately two thousand people, 80% women, and of those women 93% were wearing Quacker Factory stretch capris with matching tees. The rogue 7% were wearing Denim & Co. The mean age was 57 and the average weight was fat.

At last, the check-in process began and we had our cruise cards issued and photos taken (for security purposes) and then we began to walk the plank . . . oh, forgive me, I got my terminology wrong. We walked up the gangplank to get on board. Welcome to the MSC Opera! Waiting to greet us at the top of the walkway were the show hosts Pat James DeMentri and Bob Bowersox. I was travelling with my twenty-two year old daughter and we had our photos taken with Pat and Bob. Alli and I looked dishevelled and exhausted from being stowed for hours in a metal hanger. Pat and Bob, having had their picture taken already several hundred times still looked fresh and sincere. They were well-trained but I could tell that representing QVC on a week-long cruise was going to be tough work.

Their Meet and Greet of 2000 cruisers went something like this: “Hi I’m Sally from New Jersey. Remember me? We talked on the Morning Show on the 14th  when you had that cold. Remember?” “Hi Pat. I just love you. I watch you all the time. I am so happy to meet you. Say, I am hoping you can help me. . .I lost the wristlet that came with Today’s Special Value…” “Yo Bob! My name is Eddie and I gotta tell you this is an honor. Your tip about using the pressure washer to clean my dog is the best thing since. . .oh, yeah, let me introduce you to my better half. This is Margaret.” “I bet you guys didn’t have to wait in that hanger did you? No, I bet you were in your cabins hours ago. Am I right? Who do I talk to about this?” It takes about four to five hours to greet 2000 people.

A smiling cabin steward was waiting to take us from our embrace with Pat and Bob to our room. The room was a tiny jewel, sparkling clean and modern with plenty of closet space and a small but efficient bathroom. But the room was made perfect by wall to wall sliding glass doors leading out onto a balcony. It was breathtaking. I tipped the cabin boy generously (hoping to assure good service throughout) and was rewarded for the rest of the trip by being greeted with a joyous grin whenever we should pass in the hallways. Since we are talking about the cabin and cabin steward service I will tell you now that it was impeccable. My daughter and I are not neat and would leave things all over the cabin. When we we returned to our room to prepare for dinner on that first day (and every day subsequently) our room was spotless. All our clothes were picked up and folded neatly on our beds. And, following the advice I learned on Cruise Critics, I would leave the cabin steward a Post It Note message whenever we wanted anything…like ice and it would be there.

To our surprise and delight we would also find on our bed a little gift from QVC wrapped in an organza bag. Each night there was a present on our pillows — cosmetics, jewelry, tee shirts, sun hats, a disposible camera. We looked forward to returning to our rooms to see what “Santa” had left us. These were not the only gift opportunities. QVC lavished its cruisers will raffles and give aways throughout the cruise.  But I am way ahead of myself. We need to eat.

I had read about how great cruise food was. The food on the Opera was not. It was adequate but plentiful. I heard some cruisers complaining that the breakfast scrambled eggs were runny . . . ya maybe but that left the mere following choices — foccacia, toast, rolls, sweet rolls, bacon, sausage, potatoes, cereal, fresh fruit, fruit salad, salami, ham, herring, yogurt. No one was gonna starve. But let’s jump ahead to dinner. We were assigned to the late seating (8:30 PM) and were delighted to find that our table mates were laugh riot for the entire week. In addition to my daughter and myself there were six other women aboard in twos.

The most fascinating of the couples were a pair from Tennessee, married ladies in their late thirties early forties out for a girl’s week without family. They were a cross between Vogue and the McCoys, dressed each night in chic cocktail dresses – “Wall, mah idea of  a fuhn evening  is sitt’n in my deck char out on the lahn waiting fer that storm to come along. Wen it gits too windy we all get in mah truck and palay the radio.” Each night they ordered a bottle of wine for themselves and ate up a storm. These were lovely, slender ladies and in the world of unfairness ordered double entrees at each meal. I ate the consomme and gained weight. Our Tennessee friends were great gals and kept us in stitches for a week of dinners.

When we set sail I was about as excited as I had ever been. This was the beginning of a great adventure for me. Alli and I had plotted out our activities for the next day (trivial pursuit contest, lecture on fashion, salsa dancing) and were tired and happy. I put on my Stan Herman nightgown and we opened the sliding glass doors to let in the sea breeze and the sound of the waves. We were out like a light.

The Easter Egg Hunt

When our daughter was growing up we held an annual Easter party for her friends, the centerpiece of which was a massive Easter egg hunt. Rain or shine my husband and I would spend hours hiding hundreds of candy eggs and pretty colored foil wrapped treats. Vulnerable goodie such as Peeps were placed in baggies, nestled with a few jelly beans.  Favorites were Hershey’s Kisses wrapped in pastels foil and speckled malt ball eggs.

We also hid a few special eggs like Cadbury eggs or the delicate crystal sugar ones that you could look inside. Each child was given a basket already layered with decorative “grass” and a simple instruction — they could only take one special egg even if they found more. This rule helped prevent the Alpha Males and Females from hogging. A dozen kids dressed in party clothes tore through the house and the yard, sounds of excitement rising. We kept a careful eye on equity and any child falling behind would be lead to a secret stash to even things out. It was a happy hunt and guaranteed a quiet half hour afterwards as the kids spread out their loot and sorted and traded.

I took photographs every year, of course, and it is hard to tell one year from the next the ritual being repeated so exactly. But I do take note of which friends drop in and out of our daughter’s life throughout elementary school. I remember one little girl fondly — she was an adopted girl from India and she and Alli became fast friends. After her first Easter with us when her Mom picked her up I overheard her Mom ask if she had fun. Maya replied “They treated me like a Queen.” I have never been so touched or happy that our hospitality to the children on Easter would leave such a feeling. It was really a  gift to me.

Often during the following summers we would find rain soaked candies amongst the flower beds — overlooked by the kids in their frenzy. These were happy reminders of a family ritual and a rite of Spring. I still have, stored in the attic, a bag full of the hollow plastic eggs we used to stuff full of treats. Maybe they will serve another generation. Also stored up there are the frilly party dresses that Alli wore — they were all hand-me-downs from my sister-in-law — gorgeous dresses that we would never have bought on our own. They were another gift to me since what mother does not take joy in dressing up her girl like that?

This will be a much simpler Easter at our house. We will do a family cooking project, making lamb for dinner and perhaps Alli and I will make some sugar cookies shaped and decorated like Easter eggs. We will watch Charleston Heston in the Ten Commandments again this year and Ben Hur, The Robe, or any other holiday movie on TV. I will look through my art books at paintings of the resurrection, of Jesus walking amongst his disciples, and his ascending to Heaven. And I will reflect on all the gifts of happiness that I have received on Easter throughout the years — one of the very special days in my life.

The Pause that Refreshes

A recent http://ellaella.wordpress.com/ From Scratch post for a Coca Cola ham recipe reminded me of my grandfather, the creator of the famous Coke advertising slogan “The Pause that Refreshes.” Back in the twenties he was an advertising executive, having previously spent many years helping build the railroad infrastructure across America. Grandpa was wildly successful and lived a fine life supporting his wife, her two sisters, and his son in an upscale section of St. Louis.

Reaching middle age he gave it all up, bought a modest house in rural Missouri and became a Baptist minister. He never looked back at what had come before. I wish that I  had known him better. He died when I was still a child. I would love to know what happened in his life to cause him to pause for that critical moment and let Change into his life.

My Dad used to tell a story about how the congregation believed that you could not be a full member until you had a personal vision of Jesus. The church was tiny and always crammed full with worshippers. It was standing room only. My Dad, then a child, found a place to sit under a table at the back. During a particularly fervent and loud singing of gospel hymns, when folks jumped to their feet to sing hallelujah, he jumped to his feet thus cracking his skull smartly on the table top. Stars and whirling visions circled his head. He took this to be the sign — crawling out from under the table he cried out that he had met Jesus at last!

Grandpa’s little house in the country was a haven for my brother and me during summer vacations. Being city kids we loved  the quiet, the long gravel driveway, the fireflies, and especially walking to the small white church with Grandpa singing “Jesus loves me this I know.”

The QVC Cruise: Part 1 (Cruise Critics)

 As I mentioned in my post entitled “Home Shopping” I was one of the winners of QVC ’s Anniversary cruise contest. I do not remember actually entering the contest but I got the news that I had won when I was in the hospital, soaked in morphine, the day after I had a knee replaced. My husband called me and said “QVC called.” Immediately I felt a sense of foreboding. It could not be a good thing to have QVC call and speak to one’s husband. Had I returned too many items or cancelled too many impulse  buys thus being banned from future shopping? No, it could not have been that — he would have been dancing in the streets if that happened. Had American Express declined to extend me credit? He continued, “You won a cruise for two in January.” Of course I thought he was pulling my (good) leg but he swore he was serious. The doctor came in to look at my dressing. Cradling the phone  I said, “I won a cruise.” He tapped the button on my morphine drip. Later the nurse came in and  I said, “I won a cruise.” She said, “we are taking you off the morphine tomorrow.” It was not until the lady came to take away my dinner tray that I found someone who would appreciate my news.  “That’s nice.” she said.

I did a quick mental calculation, it was mid-September — I would be fully recovered just in time. Preparing for the cruise was my salvation. My physical therapist said she had never seen anyone recover from a knee replacement so quickly. My doctor was amazed. I attribute it to the long hours I spent at the computer during  my convalesce shopping for cruise clothes on-line thus forcing my knee into that all important bent position so painful and difficult for recoverees to attain.

I had never been on a cruise before and had no idea what to expect so I decided to do some research. I entered “QVC cruise” into Google’s search engine and by that route discovered Cruise Critics,  a web site/message board devoted to cruise education (http://www.cruisecritic.com/). It was a gold mine. Every scrap of information one would ever need to know about cruising is on that site. I learned about embarkation, what to pack, how we will be transported from the ship to the shore, what to wear to dinner, when the casinos will be open, why I should pack Post-It notes and a bungee cord. But its best feature is its message board.

There was already a QVC cruise thread going so I jumped right on board (double pun… I want the recognition that deserves!). Very soon I was on a first name basis with a dozen or so of my soon to be fellow travellers. We compared notes about our pre-cruise hotels, when we would show up, how we would meet for drinks, what we would pack etc. Some guy who was not even going on the cruise chimed in every once in awhile with advice — clearly he was a very experienced cruiser and his hobby was to hang out and live vicariously through other people’s cruise experiences. He knew where every ATM was in every port of call. He also knew that the MSC Opera’s drinking glasses held a mere 4 ounces.

In addition to threads organized by Cruise Liner, there were forums for cruise fashion, cruise lore, cruise gambling, cruise boozing, special interest cruising, and my favorite — cruise oddities. One woman wrote about booking a cruise only to find out once on board that she was one of the few people who were not part of the International Bell Ringers convention. Every moment of her day on the ship was accompanied by bells being rung in practice and in concert. Another woman booked a cruise vacation not knowing she was booking with a swingers convention. The best story though featured a  husband and wife who carried a teddy bear with them everywhere and dressed it for each event on the cruise — bathing suit for the pool, tuxedo for dinner, jeans and a tropical shirt for excursions. Oh, and one last good one….there was a gentleman who wore his life vest for the entire cruise, even over his tux.

The cruise fashion forum was very popular. If you want to post a pic of your proposed cocktail dresses for a thumbs up or down that is the place to do it. Or to pose questions like “Is it OK to wear my thong bikini to the Captain’s table?” There were lots of discussions about being insecure because of being fat. Well, I can tell you that on the cruise that I was on the average weight was 225 lbs so no insecurity is warranted.

If you are a first time cruiser do not even think about going on a cruise without going to Cruise Critics first. You will need the duct tape and Christmas lights. (In Part Two of the QVC Anniversary Cruise we will embark and explore the ship and meet the QVC hosts.)

What Are the Odds of That?

I spent four hours this morning getting a crash course in how to beat the slots in Vegas and a discourse in the vast importance of the player’s card comp system from a wanna be professional gambler while at the same time preserving your constitutional right to a fair and representative judicial system. I had jury duty and was confined to the jurors lounge sharing a table with an enthusiastic gentleman eager to share his passion for poker. He was not dissuaded by my attempts to read the newspaper and I did not want to hurt his feelings so I ended up being a captive audience…ah, student.

Three panels of sixty potential jurors were summoned to appear today at 8:00 AM in the municipal courthouse. After checking in and receiving our juror number we milled around for forty-five minutes, the lucky ones sitting. Finally we were assembled for orientation which consisted of a lecture from a jolly officer who warned us three times that if our name was called and we were outside having a smoke we would be arrested. He also assured us that even if we were not seated on a trial we were still performing a great service in preserving our constitution by appearing today. Then we watched a movie in which sincere actors explained the jury system and assured us that even if we were not seated we were performing a great service to our country by showing up. I began to get the feeling that there had been lots of complaints in the past about wasting time.

We were sent back to the jurors lounge and told we could have a coffee break. My gambling teacher accompanied me to the sundry shop for coffee, continuing his tutorial with advice on how to survive the inevitable melt-down that happens after playing for thirty-eight hours straight (peanut butter crackers, two Advil, coffee, and bottled water). Returning to the lounge he explained that gambling was serious business and required continual education — he whipped out a book to illustrate his point. Shuffle Me: The Mathematics of Poker. Maybe I zoned out at some earlier point in my training, but he kept using terminology that I did not understand and when he began with the math I began to glaze.

Mercifully, we were called to assemble again and the jolly officer informed us that he had good news and bad news. “We have one hundred sixty people here today and for one hundred thirty eight of you I have good news — you are to be dismissed. Eight of you will be seated on a trail out of a pool of twenty two. Jurors One through Twenty Two please remain. The rest of you — thank you for your participation today; you are dismissed. I looked over at my gambler friend to see him shaking his head in dismay. He was number twenty two. What are the odds of that?

The Counterfeit Basho

I have a confession to make. I am not really an eighteenth-century haiku poet nor a Zen master. And yet you will find my koans and my poems published and on the shelves with Basho’s. In my case, I was a pen for hire . . . “I need three koans to go along with these illustrations.” Or more correctly, I was a captive pen — on staff and I did whatever assignment I was told to do. In my callow youth I did not consider that it might be wrong to tell a story or pose a question aimed at leading others to enlightenment when I was not in the lineage of enlightenment myself. But I was not totally callous. I was respectful of Eastern thought and had done some reading about Zen Buddhism.  So, armed with a little knowledge and a decent facility for words I crafted my sage sayings, got my pay check and thought no more of it.

I was also a counterfeit dog groomer (“The Mayonnaise Treatment”), opera expert (a series of opera crossword puzzles), and ornithologist (book reviewer). I never intended to be a journalist, freelancer, or writer of any sort. Journalists are skilled, educated and trained professionals — they write with authority. I was not — I did not. These assignments were accidents that kept coming my way. These were the miscellany of putting together books and magazines and I was the mistress of miscellany. My assignments were not going to shake the world by any stretch of the imagination and no one was really counting on having Pavarotti create the crossword puzzle — and I really did hope Fido’s coat had a magnificent sheen. But truth be told, I wrote because I had to.

I have long since left the world of publishing for that of high tech. Today my only writing is this blog and my only ethical dilemmas have to do with how much I shield my dear readers from reading about the horrors of mall parking. But I did want to get it off my chest that I have not really attained enlightenment and I have never put Miracle Whip on my dog.

You Can Get Anything You Want…

I was looking for the name of a disease or bacteria to use in a post so I decided to “google” it (sorry Yahoo). This is what was returned when I entered “infectious diseases” into Yahoo’s search engine! CDC where are you? I guess testing on the little program used to generate sponsored links was not quite robust enough!