When the Fridge is Empty

What do you eat when the fridge is empty? And I define “empty” as being completely crammed full of the following items: mango chutney, herring in sour cream, 52 oz of ketchup, an item formerly known as watermelon, goat cheese, left over haddock, half sour pickles, chocolate milk, three bags of mini carrots, eight lock’n lock containers each holding a single radish, a Sharpie pen with an extra fine nib, three tubes of anchovy paste and (at the very back of the middle shelf), four eggs. Finding no inspiration in these items I turn to look in the pantry.

Our pantry is actually not a single unit. Some of our food items (cans and sacks and boxes) are in the kitchen shelves, some are in the shelving in the mud room, and some adorn the microwave, going up one side, across the top, and down the other. There is a separate cabinet in the kitchen for baking supplies, cat food, and the 23 boxes of sugar free instant pudding that have cloned there from the original box.  The cupboard also houses a large and athletic family of moths.

All this shelf space is devoted to brown rice, pasta, raisins, peanut butter, miso soup packets, tea bags, black bean soup, dried lentils, Hershey’s syrup, flour, sugar, canned petite pois, fig jam, Porinino’s pasta sauce, a menu from the House of Pizza, a wadge of advertising magnets, and Meyer’s Rum (ah, for cooking).

Still uninspired I look in the freezer. Six trays of ice, a bag of ice, a half bag of ice, papaya pops, coffee beans, walnuts, frozen lamb gyro meat, edamame, four empty containers of Haagen Dazs, an unopened container of sugar free fat free frozen yogurt (mixed berry flavored), six ice packs, and an exploded tube of cookie dough.

Tonight we are having pasta and sauce, canned peas, and frozen treats for dessert . . . again.

Cognitive Behavioral Therapy

Everyone should have the good fortune to be in therapy. It is better than a massage. Where else can you spend an hour talking about yourself without someone muttering “She is so full of herself”? Really good therapists are trained not to nod off or roll their eyes, so for an hour you can pretend that you have someone’s rapt attention. In the good old days of psychoanalysis the focus was on the past and you would have to spend weeks dredging up memories of the time you had a tantrum in McDonalds and threw up your Happy Meal. Today, if you are seeing a really “with it” shrink, the focus is on your immediate issues and giving you tools to break away from negative thinking. For example, if your spouse says “What’s for dinner?” and you respond “You’ll eat what you get,” that indicates negative thinking. With Cognitive Behavioral Therapy you learn to respond to the question “What’s for dinner?” this way: “I am hearing a tone in your question that makes me uncomfortable. I really don’t like it when you question me. In fact, I am now so upset that I am going to have to call for Chinese food to be delivered. I’ll be in the bedroom lying down. Please call me when you have set the table and the food is served.”

 There are some downsides to Cognitive Behavioral Therapy — for one, my therapist gave me homework. He told me about a book called The Feeling Good Handbook and asked me to read it before our next visit. Hello, the book is over 700 pages long. And we had just gotten through spending an hour talking about the fact that I have focus problems and can’t finish a magazine article much less a book that weighs more than my cat. Oh, there are those negative feelings again. I need to make an adjustment here — “My, my. Here is a wonderful opportunity to enrich myself. If I take things slowly, let’s say two paragraphs at a time, I should be able to handle it without looking like a complete dodo, which is how I always end up looking when some inconsiderate . . .” I guess I should take a shot at reading.

I think there is one person who writes all self-help books. How else would they all get the same positive, jaunty tone? I love it when the author tries to get giggy with the patients by showing that they too are vulnerable –”Even psychiatrists have trouble communicating with their more difficult patients.” I flipped through the book reading all the examples about how Mary had negative thoughts and how she learned to be rational. Mary is a basket case. I should be able to breeze through this.

At my therapy session tomorrow I get to hand in my homework. I am confident that I will get an A.

Basket Weaving in a Weather Balloon

The DeCordova Museum and Sculpture Park, in Lincoln, MA, is holding its Annual Exhibition through August 12th. We head out to the museum often since it is just far enough away to make for a nice outing and because it is my favorite place on earth. Yesterday we ended up there on a whim and discovered that the Bank of American was paying all its bank customers’ admissions for the month of May (thank you bank!). So we saved ourselves nine bucks each and saw the best exhibition I have seen in years. There was not a weak link in the bunch.

I was utterly blown away by the work of Nathalie Miebach. She creates sculptures in which basket weaving and her interpretation of climate change statistics are interwoven into complex forms, suspended in space. Her meandering baskets look like they have collided with pogo sticks forming colorful Sputniks powered by numbers. Her artist’s statement reads: “My work focuses on the intersection of art and science and the visual articulation of scientific observations or theories. Using methodologies and processes of both disciplines, I translate scientific data related to physics, astronomy or climate change into three-dimensional structures. My method of translation is principally that of weaving–in particular basket weaving–as it provides me with a simple yet highly effective grid through which to interpret data into three-dimensional space.” Miebach’s work is truly original both in concept and in execution. Hers is an amazing talent.

If you go to the DeCordova, pick a nice day so that you can enjoy a stroll through the sculpture park. Many of the sculptures are interactive, playable, climbable, and the setting is magnificent. And while you are strolling make sure you take the time to find your way into the dense trees that form huge teepees on the grounds — treats await you inside. Families were out in force yesterday and it was a joy to watch the kids staring in amazement at the huge sculptures, including a giant pink wooden pig and a spinning whirlygig.

Whoever the museum’s curator is deserves the Best Curator in the World award. I have never been to an exhibit at the DeCordova that did not really excite me. This one is absolutely thrilling.

Art Galleries

May in Massachusetts can be as lovely as I imagine Heaven can be. And today was one of those stunningly gorgeous days — warm, mellow, with those big puffy clouds and lots of sunshine. My husband and daughter (both who are artists) wanted to check out the cluster of art galleries on Harrison Ave, so we drove downtown for what turned out to be a really nice morning.

The galleries front a wide alley just off Harrison near Berkeley. A long, renovated industrial building houses the galleries on the bottom two floors and artists’ studios above. The renovation includes brick paths and stairs and welcoming landscaping. It is an interesting contrast to the homeless shelter next door — the galleries were hyper clean and modern and the shelter was clean but with the thin veneer of lysol instead of beeswax.

My husband and daughter were checking out what kind of art was being exhibited and talked to each gallery owner about whether they were currently looking at portfolios. While they talked art I walked around and did some research of my own. First I noticed that all the galleries had basically the same setup. Just inside the door was a table with a guest book and postcards of the exhibitors works. And each gallery had a display pedestal with a simple spray of orchids.

At the back of each gallery was the owner’s desk (sometimes occupied by a gallery representative and sometimes by the owner). The friendliness factor ranged from cool to  “let me show you everything.” The art ranged from really awful to absolutely brilliant. The works were priced from $2000 with a couple of very large pieces breaking the ten grand mark. I whispered to my husband, “work big!”

There was only one artist’s work, however, that really got under my skin. As I walked through the rooms of the exhibit all I could think of was 9-1-1. Although totally abstract, every painting had skyscraper and explosion images (at least for me). I read the artist’s statement eagerly, looking for confirmation. He said nothing at all about the attack. I felt that the artist was intentionally avoiding the topic so that he would not appear trite. I was a bit cross at this. Nonetheless, the work was astounding.

We wandered into an architectural salvage warehouse and had fun poking through columns and fireplaces and old sconces. My daughter who has a built in beacon for vintage clothing discovered a fabulous shop. Poor hubby sat in the sun while we took forever looking at retro clothes and handbags. I sacrificed $20 for a wool sweater for my girl.

I spent the ride home trying to figure out how these galleries managed to stay open. I did some math models to see how many pictures they would need to sell to cover costs. I finally deduced that the gallery owners were either dirt poor or had other means of income. What a wonderfully rich alley that was –so full of a whole range creative expression, personality, and hope. Keeping art alive is so much more important than so many of the things we spend our time and money on. Skip the movie, go to the gallery. Talk to the artists. Take a long look.

Wind Chimes

I decided to get my husband some wind chimes as an anniversary gift so I went to the local garden center where I knew there was a decent selection. I was not prepared for the amount of decision making that is involved in choosing a wind chime — this was not going to be a grab and run gift.

Did I want stainless steel? Or enamel coated? Or bronzed? Did I want cherry wood, teak, or oak? Did I want Celtic embellishments? Or Native American? Or Zen? And now to the music choices — Beethoven? Mozart? Mariachi? Tuscany? Provence? Italy? Reggae? Gregorian Chants? I rang them all and did not recognize any sounds that corresponded to the labels on the boxes. They all sounded like generic wind chimes.

The prices went from $39 for the Tuscany to $100 for the Knights Templar, which, of course, is what I had to buy. It was the biggest and most elaborate of the chimes, which seems like the right idea for a husband gift. A wimpy chime would send the wrong message.

It is difficult to come up with gift ideas after thirty nine years of marriage. The wind chimes were a big hit, so I am gratified. They are hanging right outside the window of my husband’s office above the garage. Unfortunately they are also hanging right outside our neighbor’s bedroom window. I am hoping that their air conditioning noise will drown out the medieval tinkling noise, otherwise I am sure we will find the chimes’ strings severed some day soon. It would be a shame for them to meet a violent end like their namesake.

The Porch Glider

My hubby bought me a porch glider
Thinking gosh I’ll sit down beside her
The mister and I get along
But his thinking is wrong
Cause my butt could not get any wider

I studied the specs for the most sturdy
If it collapsed I would get dirty
Not wanting to fall down
I picked six hundred pound
I will sit fine and look purty

The photo showed nice cushion choices
A red one made me rejoices
Until I saw
That the cost of them all
Made me hear negative voices

My glider will be delivered ship free
And my spouse will sit next to me
If I squeeze very tight
All the way to the right
We will swing on the porch happily

Filling the Void with Things

In my studies of Buddhism I have learned that the second Nobel Truth is that suffering is caused by craving and aversion. I think that this equates to “money can not buy happiness” — filling our lives with stuff will not fill the void in our souls. This has really hit home recently . . . although by many standards my family lives modestly, we have everything material that one could need — often in duplicate or triplicate. I am the worst offender, having shoes and handbags in every color, a half dozen wallets, walls of books, enough cosmetics to paint the Grand Canyon, CDs, DVDs, craft supplies, clothes, clothes, clothes. Yet with all this stuff I am still searching for peace of mind.

I have decided to pare down. I think that being surrounded by so much stuff is blocking my ability to appreciate anything. So I am going to take inventory and part with anything that does not have true value to me. And once I have distilled my possessions I am not going to obtain more unless there is a real need. Being bored will no longer count as a need. When I feel depressed or bored I will meditate or exercise instead of shop.

I have a dear friend who shops for charity — she loves to shop but needs nothing for herself. So she has chosen a local orphanage and buys for the children. Last Christmas she took them mounds of clothes and toys. Whenever she shops she picks up an item or two for the kids. For her Christmas lasts all year. My friend used to be a shopping junkie. But I think that dealing with devastating health issues both herself and with her son and her sister has put things in perspective. It is wonderful to see someone who once was materialistic channel that into giving. She is an inspiration to me.

If you find that you are addicted to buying things, if your credit card debt is more than is within your means to pay off, if you have so much stuff that it sits in piles for lack of storage, then maybe you need to check and see if you are skirting the perimeter of a big void in your life. Fill that void with giving, with compassion for others, with being good to yourself. If you try to fill the void with things you will find out that it is a bottomless pit.

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Made In China

In visiting various blogs and message boards I have noticed that there is an awful lot of sentiment against buying goods made in China. Since I did not see evidence of this negativity against goods made in France or Brazil I began to wonder what it was about China that singled it out.

The objections seem to fall into two categories — the Flag Waving and the Devil at Our Doorstep. In the first category most of the posts start out by saying “I am a patriot” or “I am American” and go on to advise that as Americans we should buy only American made goods. Into this category fall the topics of losing American jobs to Chinese cheap labor and the impression that Chinese goods are of inferior quality. Into the second  category are the arguments about balance of trade and Chinese ownership of America.

John and Jane Q. Public rant mostly in the Flag Waving category. It is true that many jobs previously performed by U.S. workers are now sent overseas where labor is cheaper. But it is important to note that while China was once the major source for this labor, the source is shifting to new places like Viet Nam and Brazil as it gets more expensive to do business in China. And as to the issue of perceived quality, it is just not true that Chinese products are inferior. American and International companies establish the standards that have to be met and most follow International Standards Organization quality process. It is more the fact that a wider variety of products are available and thus both ends of the quality spectrum are now available to consumers. If you spent $15.98 on shoes you are not  going to get $99.98 shoe quality. There is also the issue of Chinese abuse of intellectual property rights — when you buy a pirated knockoff bag or CD you are in fact stealing from (in many cases) an American who owns the rights.

The real issue with America’s trade relationship with China is the disparity in the balance of trade. The U.S. imports about five times more than it exports. That means that the Chinese hold five times more U.S. dollars, meaning that they hold a huge ownership in America versus our ownership of China. Combine this holding of what are essentially promisory notes with the fact that China is a major investor in the stock market, buying ownership in American corporations, we can see that China is gaining significant control of the American economy. The question to ask is do we want a foreign nation to take ownership of America in that way.

Do we want China (or any foreign nation) manufacturing and supplying to the U.S. parts for the military? Do we want China to own American companies that are key to our homeland security (such as energy corporations) or our infrastructure? Do we want China to be able to export to the U.S. goods that will undermine our own manufacturing interestes (such as textiles)?

Ask the Bush administration why they are agreeing to trade negotiations that put us in that position. Military might means nothing when the balance of power has already shifted to a foreign nation by way of the ownership of our economy. Trade is good; an enormous trade deficit is bad.

Men’s Purses: A History (Part 1)

With the discovery of fire, early hominids discovered that they needed pockets — one can only carry a flaming stick for so long — having a flint and some twigs tucked away is so much better. But, alas, early hominids had not yet discovered clothing, being content with flinging a dead yak (with most of the yak scraped off) over their backs when it got cold. The dilemma was solved when an enterprising cave dweller noticed that yak furs could be folded and tied with vines to make nifty things to put on the head or tie around the waist. After convincing the clan to thus decorate themselves, the clan members took note of the fact that food dropped during the weekly feeding frenzy fell into the folds and remained there to be eaten later. The portable pocket was born (as was the snack).

The idea almost died out at inception since the genius hominids attempted to carry their flaming sticks in their new pocketbooks. Two thousand  years of false starts eventually lead to the use of flints and safety matches. The rudimentary purse evolved with man. Females, already encumbered with carrying babies in slings in the front, roofing materials in slings on the back, and water buckets in each hand, missed the early bird specials on handbags and had to wait until the Renaissance.

Ancient man, still being nomadic, needed something in which to carry his growing number of possessions . . . carvings made by the kids, arrowheads, and his lunch. Men’s bags quickly evolved into multipurpose carriers — knives and small blunt instruments were stowed for easy access and bread found a warm, damp place in which to mould and fester thus creating a yummy layer which negated the need for carrying cheese.

By the time of the Roman Empire, men were carrying heavy lead coins so bags had to be very sturdy. The Romans and Celts soon learned that this combination of coinage and thick hide made excellent protection for the private parts during the all too often skirmishes with the Germanic barbarians. The barbarians, not yet buying into the whole coin of the realm idea, learned that mouldy bread was inadequate for the task and had to develop different forms of armor (such as leiderhosen). An often forgotten but salient cause of the decline of the Roman Empire was the fact that the challenges of the barbarians drained Rome financially with a side effect that there was no disposable cash left for accessories. Thus vulnerable, both in fashion sense, but also in the private parts, Roman defeat was inevitable.

We are most fortunate that with the archaeological discovery of the bog people (preserved remains of several unhappy people who were pitched into the peat bog for reasons unknown) several handbags were found preserved in almost pristine condition. Without this discovery we would never have known that designer logos extended that far back in history. Previously it was thought that designer logos must have started as the result of the rise of guilds. Feudal Europe has a system of skilled masters and their apprentices divvying up the work of tinkering, tailoring, and blacksmithing. Handbag production was outsourced to Shanghai under the Offshore Labor guild. The position of guild master for OL was a powerful one, controlling not only the production of men’s purses but also their design and distribution. Renegade locals who sought to handcraft their own purses were dealt with severely. However, their crude attempts to forge the sanctioned Made in China labels were sufficiently convincing to allow them a significant market share. The Offshore Labor guild, driven to protect its interests, began to have all its handbags marked with an elaborate, hard-to-forge “OL”, thus thwarting the knockoff bag attempts and establishing what we believed to be the first designer logo.

The Renaissance saw the emergence of the fanny pack. Men’s tights being the fashion of the day were popular because of their comfort and because they emphasized men’s . . . ah, Standing in the community. Sporting a dainty fanny pack, elaborately decorated with beadwork and tooling, was an attractive adjunct designed to draw the eye to the wearer’s. . . ah, Fashion Sense. Fanny packs were practical too, shoulder bags having the problem of interfering with swordsmanship. In fact, in later years, the fanny pack was adapted to carry weapons and the holster was invented. The use of purses went in to a severe decline late in the Renaissance when, having rediscovered the ancient Greek classics, Renaissance man noted that all the statues and painted objects of that time were absent of handbags. Bags being suddenly out of style, men were forced to turn to their wives to carry their gear, and once given a taste of a designer bag, so to speak, there was no going back to wearing slings full of household goods or grain. Women had discovered the beauty of bags.

In Part II of this History we will visit the Age of Enlightenment and the Age of Discovery.

While Searching for Atlantis Please Look for My Socks

  I bet you have a drawer or a box in which you keep singleton socks. It is pretty interesting that you are so rational about most things but with regard to socks you believe that some day, some how those missing socks will take the long march back and suddenly one day, Voila, they will be at your doorstep. Like Star Trek Voyager, home at last.

The other day when I was in the basement doing laundry I spotted what looked like a garden gnome sitting on top of the dryer. At first I thought it must be statuary for the yard — a birthday present from my husband that he failed to hide sufficiently. But then it spoke. Needless to say I was struck speechless. It asked me if I wanted to take a pill to become small. If you are a devoted reader of this blog you already know that I am Large and would  do anything to be Small. But taking pills from garden gnomes struck me as being ill advised and possibly illegal. The gnome, however, was persistent. “Linshaolin,” he said, “we are about to take a remarkable journey and you will be much more comfortable if you are smaller.” Next thing I knew, I was popping the pill and before it even reached my stomach it  began its magic. But I did not become slender! I became Small . . . I mean tiny. So here I was the size of a quarter but with a big butt. The gnome shrank too and was beckoning me to follow him into the lint trap of the dryer.

I had not realized that I was so remiss in cleaning out the lint trap. We had to struggle through it like fighting through jungle vines  in the Amazon. At last we came to a Small opening in the lint trap — I peered into its blackness. While I was bending forward to look into the opening the gnome gave me a push and I went head first down a long chute and landed in an enormous pile of socks. “Hey,” I said, both in reaction to being pushed and also because I recognized a green striped sock that I had been trying to find for months. I looked around — we were in a strange landscape consisting of mounds of socks. Hoards of busy gnomes with wheel barrels were busy moving socks and making giant sock piles. I saw a red sock with the word Boston in script. “Hey,” I said again. “These are my socks, all of them! The gnome nodded his head in agreement. “Where are we?” I queried. “We are in Le Pays des Socquette Perdu, far underground. This is our home where we live peaceably, needing only an occasional sock to sustain us.” Now, I, too, happen to have a plastic tub filled with singleton socks, so I had to lift my brow over his statement that they needed only an occasional sock. “OK,” he admitted, “we need lots and lots of socks.”

I am amazed that no one has inadvertently stumbled upon Le Pays des Socquette Perdu, an island nation very similar to Atlantis. I have a suspicion that it is subterrainian and will be found only by drilling toward the earth’s core. Like Atlantis there is no physical evidence of its existence, but the folk lore about it is so prevalent in many cultures that one has to believe it is real. And now that I have been there myself I hope to be able to convince people so that we can begin a cultural exchange. Think of the benefits! The island gnomes get as many socks as they desire and we get back all the socks to match the singletons that we have held on to  for years . . .

The gnome told me it was time to return. But first he had a few words. “Lin, tell the people not to wear socks made out of 100% synthetic material. The smell of stinky feet never really gets out and there is nothing we can do with these socks except use them as land fill. And please ask them to wear more flowered socks. Our lady folk like to have cheerful socks around the house. And tell those husbands that if they yell at you for losing their socks then 100 gnomes will come in the night and make them itch.” With that he took me to an elevator and put me inside. “Press floor 10017.” He gave me another pill but told me not to take it until we were past floor 908.

I found myself standing in front of the dryer. Had this really happened? I was about to conclude that I had been dreaming when I realized I was holding a green striped sock.

Therapy and Donuts

I arrived at the therapist’s office fifteen minutes early today. The office lady didn’t look up upon my arrival nor when she said “You’re early.” I didn’t feel like explaining to her that I am always early — it is a manifestation of low self-esteem — so I said “I like to have some time to read People magazine.” Still not looking up she handed me a new issue. “This just arrived.” It had an article about people who have lost 100 pounds. Weight loss being a sensitive topic for me, my low self-esteem got even lower. Had she been saving the copy for my arrival? Was she trying to tell me something? My therapy was set back at least two years in two minutes.

I took the magazine and sat down. There were five empty chairs and I managed to sit in the one that was right next to a box of Dunkin Donut holes. I swear I had not seen them until I sat down. The office lady looked up just as I sat down. “Help yourself,” she said . . . as if she had caught me eyeing them longingly. The box had lots of the chocolate ones with glaze. Eating one of those donuts was the last thing I was going to do — I was not going to give her the satisfaction. She pretended to be balancing the books but I knew she was watching me. I flipped through the People.

After the shrink appointment I had to go to another medical center to have blood work done to measure thyroid functioning. Thyroid malfunction is probably the only disease that some people (i.e., fat people) want to have. “I am fat because I have a malfunctioning thyroid” is a lot better sounding than “I am fat because I stuff my face with donuts.” Also, thryoid disease can be treated  so there is always the hope that you can take pills and suddenly be slim.  But I can already tell you my results will be negative. “Mrs. Shaolin, I am happy to tell you that your thyroid is fine.” NOOOOOOOOOO!

I go to the health club every day. Monday night is Tai Chi, Tuesday and Wednesday are exercise nights (twenty minutes on exercycle, thirty-five minutes of machines and stretching), Thursday is tennis lesson, Friday more exercise, Saturday and Sunday play tennis and swim. Let’s be honest . . . you thin slackers do not break a sweat more than twice a week. Right? All this exercise does nada, zip, rein, nix stix for my weight. I remain a Substantial person. It makes me very cross. So in addition to low self-esteem,  I have to work on anger management.

The Meditation Progress Report

The addition of a White Tara deity statue to my meditation space did little to improve my practice (but it does look nice).  I am still struggling to achieve “mindfulness”. Not only that but I can’t seem to remember all eight of the Eightfold Path, not to mention the Four Nobel Truths. I do remember that Life is Suffering and after a weekend heavy with tennis my knees are not arguing with that.

 My daughter who goes to yoga every day is faring much better. She is able to feel energy flowing nicely and can achieve at least some degree of peacefulness by tapping on her chest. She showed me a technique in which I should lie down on the floor and tap my feet together for five minutes. The only problem with this is that my legs are so deformed with knock-knees that I literally can not tap my feet together. We got me all set up and ready to go and tap …the toes miss each other by a good two inches. We are moving on to a variant in which I pound my legs against the floor. I am not sure this is such a good idea.

I was practicing chanting in the car coming home from the mall. Om Mani Padme Aum. I was getting in the groove when I happened to notice that I was being flagged over by a police officer.  “May I see your license and registration please. Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?” “Ah, no, you see I was chanting and did not realize I was doing 50 in a 35 mile per hour zone.” The $100 ticket is evidence that Life is Suffering. At least I know I am on the right path and am learning — one should not meditate while driving.

Yesterday I was wrapping presents for a birthday party when I saw that there was a hornet trapped inside my office. I was just about to get a roll of wrapping paper to whack it when I remembered that it was wrong to kill a living creature. My daughter came in the room at one point to find me rhythmically darting and dodging — “Are you meditating Mom?” No, I am trying to avoid the Kamikaze hornet while I work. The hornet was gone this morning. Either it found a way out or it is waiting in ambush for me — as soon as I get involved in dusting Buddha and White Tara — zap.

Sugar and Poetry: Prof. Timothy Brownlow

When I was in college in the early 1970s I took a class in Poetry taught by a young professor freshly immigrated to Canada from Dublin, Ireland. Professor Brownlow was passionate about poetry and managed to convey that passion to his students through a series of brilliant lectures. It was hard to focus on his words, however, at least until his morning routine was completed. The professor  would arrive at class in the dead of winter wearing only a worn tweed jacket to keep out the cold. This was topped off with a long, ragged, trailing muffler. He could look no more like a suffering poet than he did.

The professor was rail thin and his only sustenance seemed to be the tea he was perpetually carrying. Upon arrival in class he would set down his tea and slowly unwind the muffler. Then he would begin the elaborate ritual of adding packets of sugar to his tea. The students watched in silence as he opened and poured one packet after another, the discarded papers making a white and pink mountain on his desk. We counted out his sugars. You could almost hear the countdown from the rows of desks. When we got to sixteen packets of sugar we all stopped in unison for we had come to know our professor’s habits well.  And then the stirring began. Professor Brownlow carried with him a Spoon, the white plastic ones from the school cafeteria being insufficiently strong to work their way through the sugary sludge. Once the tea ritual was complete he began his lecture. His love of poetry was contagious.

I recently came across a web site where students had rated their teachers, one of them being the Professor. I noted a comment from one student who was bemoaning the fact that Professor Brownlow was about to retire and thus future students would not have the priviledge and the  pleasure of his teaching. I also noticed his scores which were excellent for Teaching and Research, for Helpfulness and Availability. However on Hotness the poor professor scored a zero. The hotness factor reminded me of a dinner party the professor held for his senior students. My husband and I attended and my husband, being most amused by the eccentricities of the Irish gentleman, jokingly asked whether he had any Gregorian Chants that he could play on his record player. Indeed he did, and for the remainder of the party the background noise was medieval chanting.

I wish Professor Brownlow well in his retirement from teaching. I do hope he continues to write poetry, listen to monks singing, and drink tea. Professors who love their poetry and enchant their students never really retire — their teaching is a lasting contribution enriching the lives of their students for a lifetime.

The Tennis Social

I was quite surprised to discover that I was paired up with Maria Sharapova for last Sunday’s club tennis match. She does not look at all the same in person. I always thought that television added weight but the contrary is true. My partner was quite chubby. But she had that unmistakable imperious quality that we all know and love about Maria. She did not crack a smile once in the hour and a half that I had the pleasure of being her partner. Nor did she “high five” during the brief moments between points. She spent that time generously sharing her years of tennis wisdom and instruction for my benefit. And when she would drive the ball into the net she would glance up at the (empty) bleachers, looking for advice from her coach and personal trainer.

We were playing against two men (my club’s idea of mixed doubles), one of whom was very late in getting his eyeglass prescription updated. He must have had terrible astigmatism since he called out every shot that fell within six inches of the lines. He refused to alter his judgment even when his partner told him he was crazy. Maria got increasingly irate and at one  point refused to continue. We took a water break.

The other gentleman was a talker. A very pleasant person but he kept up a running dialogue with an invisible companion. I overhead him saying “Bounce it” and “What are you thinking” several times. In between points he would  bend over to stretch and continued his dialogue with the ground. “Oh, do you think this cramp is going to get worse?” The ground remained noncommital. If someone hit a good shot he would say to his friend “Oh boy, I hope they don’t keep that up.” 

When the match was over, Maria grabbed her stuff and headed off the court without the usual pleasantries. I guess she wanted to get inside to the clubhouse quickly in case they ran out of plastic trophies before she got hers. The club’s procedure is that all four must walk together to the record book at the front desk and record the score. This practice usually unfolds as follows: the winners stride confidently into the lobby casually tossing their towels into the bin. Then they say as loudly as possible “SCORE IS 6-1. 6-3.” The losers lag behind, stopping to read the bulletin board.

I so much enjoy the camaraderie of tennis, the relaxation, the fun. It is so great to get together with folks who have a love of exercise and personal achievement, a sense of perspective. I just wish the club would stop inviting the top ten players to join us.

The Receptionist

Armed with a Bachelor of Arts degree with a double major in European History and English Literature I was qualified for exactly nothing in the job market. During my college years I had given no thought whatsoever to what would happen once I was graduated. So, when that day finally arrived, I was ill prepared. My only skills were a pleasant demeanor and 40 words per minute on the manual typewriter.

During college I worked in a department store selling drapery hardware and wallpaper. This was a career path I wanted to cut short at all costs. The thrill of asking customers whether they wanted inside or outside mounting of their venetian blinds had lost its lustre and my new supervisor frowned on our stopping for a smoke in the stockroom whenever we had to retrieve a wallpaper sample book. Plus, the eight packages of cigarettes a day was beginning to take a toll on my lungs. I had to find a different line of work.

I pounded the pavement for a few days and was offered a job as a sales clerk in a knickknack shop that sold porcelain figurines and silver tea sets. The pay was going to be two dollars an hour more than I had been making but when the store manager explained that my duties would include dusting and polishing all that junk I declined faster than you can say “Franklin Mint.” Finally I found two jobs that looked like they had potential — one as a receptionist in a furniture factory and one as a receptionist in a publishing company. I grabbed the one in publishing, perhaps without asking sufficient questions.

The publishing company published magazines — one of them about dog breeding. So naturally a lot of people came into the office accompanied by their pooches. And some of those pooches, especially the more nervous breeds, found the experience a bit too stimulating and would leave a deposit while their owners were chatting with me at the reception desk. Remarkably, about 100% of the owners failed to acknowledge that their little lovies had done doo doo on the carpet and would leave me to discover it when the smell wafted up over the desk. I spent a fair bit of my first year of employment picking dog poop off the floor.

This responsibility would have driven most ambitious college grads onto another job search but I was too insecure to leave the security of my meager paycheck. My days were highly stressful. My employer was a dragon lady — perpetually very angry and imperious. She did not speak to me in person ever. She had a buzzer on her desk that rang to mine. When she wanted something she buzzed me. I would go into her office and she would point. Point to her coffee mug if she wanted coffee, point to the stack of files if she wanted them returned to the filing cabinet, point to the safe if she wanted me to deposit the checks. One afternoon I was buzzed and I went in to find her pointing to the floor. She looked exceptionally cross. I looked at where she was  pointing and saw nothing. She  pressed the buzzer again as if I were not already in the room. I was beginning to panic. She continued to point. I walked over to the spot and stared down at it.  A minute particle of lint clung to the carpet. I left and went to the janitor’s closet and got out the carpet sweeper. It was only after I ran  it over the spot several times that she ceased pointing and buzzing. I decided I needed a new job.

The next day I arrived in the office to find it alive with gossip and chatter. The boss’s right hand girl had suddenly quit and run off with her boyfriend. I made the coffee as usual and took the coffee and mail in to the boss’s office. She did not look up from her work but she actually spoke to me. “I am taking you to lunch at 11:30.” I said thank you and made a retreat to my desk  to figure out what was going on. At lunch the boss was all beaming cheerfulness and talked to me about the magazine business and told me she was too busy to run the day to day of the dog mag. She wanted me to do it. I was speechless. I knew nothing about preparing a magazine.

She gave me the old Girl Friday’s desk (no buzzer but a dictating machine) and a Rolodex filled with the names and numbers of all the typesetters and printers. And she gave me a file filled with all the copy she expected to be in the next issue. That was it, I was on my own. I immediately called the typesetter and the printer and had them come in. I laid it out for them — “I know nothing, you have got to help me.” And they did. Using my experience as the Yearbook editor and their help we managed to get the issue produced. And the next. I worked there for three years, learning an amazing amount of stuff. But finally I had  had it. I wanted to move on.

One of the company’s sales reps told me about a position that was open as a production manager for Canada’s largest publishing company.  I interviewed and got the job. When I went into the boss’s office to resign she went ballistic. “If you leave here you will never amount to anything!” she ranted.  I resigned nonetheless. She called my new employers and cursed at them. It was my first encounter with someone being completely irrational. I exited fast.

Over the next few decades of a career in publishing I had good bosses and not so good, good jobs and bad ones, but I would have had none at all if Dragon Lady had not, for whatever reason, handed me the opportunity to leave the ranks of the Receptionist.

Evolution :-)

From the time humans descended from the trees and walked upright, thus freeing the hands for shopping, evolution has marched resolutely ever upwards — homo erectus became homo sapiens. All that energy going into perfecting standing and walking and using our thumbs. Evolution takes hundreds of thousands of years, and yet in the blink of an eye (archaeologically speaking), all that work is becoming obsolete. Humankind need walk no more and thumbs are reserved for pressing the space bar.

What forces are so powerful that they alter the fundamental design of living? The Internet of course, is one — specifically the Tim Berners-Lee’s World Wide Web. In less than three decades homo sapiens has become homo digitalens. As homo digitalens sits in front of the computer his limbs begin to atrophy, Chinese food is ordered for delivery and the walk to the front door is insufficient to maintain muscle mass. This new order of human works from home, his only tools are they keyboard, mouse, and speakerphone. Hands begin the evolutionary march to dominance and we begin to see humanoids with large hands with long, dexterous fingers.  Even digitalen’s chemical structure begins to be altered from the long application of acrylic nails and white strips – they are becoming half human half beauty product. Nails become talons for ripping open those indestructible plastic bags and teeth become so brilliant that night time illumination is no longer required.

It i s not just physical changes that are taking place which are leading to a new species. Cultural changes too are so strikingly different. Art, which had become quite sophisticated in homo sapiens, has become specialized to the point where “emoticons” and installation art are its sole expressions. I am not including the weak derivative attempts to keep sapianic art alive by means of Photoshop.

The other forces are the powerful Playstation and the small but mighty Remote Control. Sport is becoming manifest in Teken and Pat Madden’s Football and even crime no longer requires physical activity since the dawn of Grand Theft Auto. We can hijack a car and kick the living daylights out of our enemies without leaving the BarcaLounger. The Remote Control is almost equal to the power of the Web in altering the direction of evolution. The male of the species can no longer bend an elbow, as the arm points ever outward toward the television. Legs are shriveling and are frozen in bent, sitting posture.

The female of the species is no less evolving. Archeological evidence points to an enourmous increase in the use of tools. It still unknown what these tools are used for but they are marked with a new vocabulary such as Ab-Cruncher and Thigh Master. The early theories that these tools are used to enhance physique have been negated by the fact that they are always found under the bed. Current thinking is that they are sex toys. (Please note that researchers are divided in the thinking about whether homo digitalens still engages in procreation.)

The Web, Playstation, and the Remote Control are the Three Musketeers of Evolutionary change. Even shopping, the hallmark of  homo sapiens‘ ascendance and dominance over lesser creatures, is now under the blade of the caped trio. Online stores, electronic shopping carts, UPS delivery, home shopping television, and virtual dressing rooms make homo digitalens flabby, round, squat, with enormous hands whose fingers are slim. Slim fingers are specialized for the task of prying the credit card from its slot in the wallet and for manipulating the little red track ball on the keyboard — a skill still necessary for those expeditions when the intrepid homo digitalens braves taking his laptop out to the patio.

If you remain among the unevolved, still unable to open a bag of lettuce, fear not. There is a fast track to evolutionary change that will get you up to speed with homo digitalens. That fast track is called a “blog”. You merely have to start one and the rest of the process will take care of its self. You will be required to do some writing, but the majority of your evolutionary changes will take place by the constant repetition of the following sequence of keystrokes: Dashboard, Blog Stats, Scroll Bar Down, Scroll Bar Up, Feed Stats, Google Search, Type name of blog.

You will know when you are evolved when your speed dial has only two entries: Shanghai Village and Technical Support.

Your Dinner is Waiting…Life at Howard Johnsons

My mother was not a bad cook, she just wasn’t interested unless she was putting on a production for company. Family meals were few and far between. My mother scheduled all her appointments, conveniently, at dinner time and since she was almost always involved in local theatricals, she had many, many appointments. Abandoning her husband and children to fend for themselves, she set off each evening, script in hand, to the community playhouse.

Left to feed us, my father opted for restaurant meals rather than a visit from Social Services. The idea of cooking never entered his mind. And so, every single night of the week my brother and I would bundle into the car for the short drive to Howard Johnson’s oranged roof restaurant. And every night we each would place the same order: grilled cheese sandwich for me, tuna melt for my brother, and a cheeseburger for Dad. We all ordered onion rings and not a day would pass without my father asking the waitress “Are the onions rings extruded or sliced?” The waitress, having heard the question so many times before would pretend to have to think about it and then would say “They are fresh, sliced and fried just for you.” It was a complete lie since the onions rings had never been anywhere near an onion,  but my father enjoyed the joking with the waitress more than he cared about the food. And when it same time to pay he would look at the bill and pretend to be horrified. “Kids, we are going to have to wash dishes!” He never tired of this routine.

During dinner the talk was always about something that would stretch our intellects. Dad would pose questions such as “Do all points on a tire travel at the same speed?” And, of course I would say yes and of course I would be wrong. Every question was accompanied by a pencil drawing on the paper placemat. These were elaborate sketches with x/y axis or square root symbols or some such mind numbing notation. We talked about physics and art. Once we talked about ballroom dancing. My dad loved to dance and as  he talked about ballroom dancing his body would sway to some music only he could hear. He drew complex pictures of dance moves and taught us about leading and following and being perfectly in the same mental space as  your partner.

During all these grilled cheese meals nary a vegetable entered my system. I guess Dad was of the Ronald Regan school of nutrition where ketchup counted as a vegetable as did fried onion rings — it was clear that any notion of guilt over our heart clogging meals never entered his mind. And I emphasize this point by remembering that every night we ordered ice cream cones with “jimmies” to go.

We were such regulars at HoJos that sometimes the waitress would not come take our orders. She would just bring the meals. After several years she admitted to us that she kept most of the placemats and had accumulated hundreds of them. She felt certain Dad was the next Leonardo DaVinci and that his sketches would revolutionize the world.

We usually sat at the counter since my brother and I liked to spin on the tall stools. Our favorite seats began to take the shape of our bottoms. Whenever HoJos would make a change to the restaurant it was cause for much evaluation and discussion. New placemat designs were a favorite especially if they contained trivia or pictures of HoJos in different states. Once they came out with a placemat showing all the different fish species that could be found regionally. This lead to our father telling us that if we could memorize the facts about 100 fish then he would take us to Cape Cod. We got our trip to Cape Cod. We were then challenged to learn about sea shells. To this day I can tell you about the chambered nautilus and the left handed whelk.

Every meal ended with the same question being posed to us. And there was no escaping having a good solid answer. Dad would ask: “What have you done today that is creative, constructive, altruistic, and educational. If we had lived the day according to these values he would take a package of gold stars from his pocket, lick one and stick it squarely on our forehead. It was a happy night for me when I would drift off to sleep after touching my forehead to make sure my star was still there.

Unkie Jim

Unkie Jim was not a “real” uncle. Nonetheless, he was a “real” member of our family – a family friend so dear that we counted him as one of our own. Jim shared every major holiday with us at our house and no occasion was more joyous than was his arrival for Christmas. Jim met my parents when they were all working together during World War II as scientists doing psychology research for the military. Their friendship lasted a lifetime, broken only by my parents’ passing.

Jim was a lifelong bachelor, thesbian, and gourmet cook. He lived in Washington D.C. and then California while my folks lived in Massachusetts. Despite the distance he would drive across the country at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthdays to celebrate with us. He would usually arrive in the middle of the night and not wanting to disturb us would sleep in his car despite the cold. For one of my birthdays he arrived early but instead of sleeping in the car, he spent the hours sitting on the floor of our screened porch blowing up balloons and shaping them into animals.  To my absolute delight, the porch was alive with balloon animals when I woke up and Unkie Jim was asleep on the floor.

Whenever we saw each other he would greet me with happy crys of ”Pwincess Lin, Pwincess Lin. Will you come out and play with me?” Unkie Jim would then proceed to tell jokes, most of which I did not understand, but his enjoyment was contagious and we would all be laughing over his craziness. Once, when I was a teenager, a package arrived for me, the label written in Jim’s script and addressed to Pwincess Lin.  I opened the package to find it contained a pair of three-legged pantyhose. No note. No explanation. Unkie Jim must have had a thing for stockings — one Christmas my father opened his gift from Jim; it was a dozen “Fashion Black” silk stockings. The next Christmas my dad wrapped them and gave them to Jim. This back and forth giving of the stockings went on for decades and was as much a ritual of our family Christmas as anything could be. I still  have the box of stockings in the attic.

It was Jim who gave my husband the name “Frog.” I was “Pwincess Lin” and the frog (really a handsome prince) won her heart. I think Jim was just a little jealous that some other guy had taken away his little girl. For the rest of our lives whenever Jim would call he would say, “Oh, how is the frog? Is he green and slimey yet?”

Jim and my mother shared a love of the theatre and both were heavily involved in community productions. Jim loved to tell the story about once when he phoned my foks and asked “what are you doing?” My mother replied “Joseph is cueing me.” (meaning he was helping her learn her lines for a play!). Jim responded with “Well, for goodness sakes do not answer the phone then or you will make him feel inadequate! Call me when you are finished.” Jim kept us in hysterics.

But back to when I was younger: as I mentioned, Jim was a gourmet cook. His arrival for Thanksgiving marked the beginning of a day of cooking during which all the adults would quench their thirst with martinis beginning as soon as they thought was respectable (which I suspect was around 10:00 AM). By the time the stuffing was made and the bird was in the oven the household was more than a little tipsy. My brother and I would follow the trail of abandoned martinis, extracting the gin soaked olives to eat as snacks. By dinner time we were mellow children.

Unkie Jim’s visits always included a trip to the North End to get almond macaroons from a little Italian bakery. These were luscious morsels and beautiful as well, in assorted pastel colors each topped with a cherry. Jim would buy two boxes knowing that my brother and I would plow through the cookies on the way home. Even though the holiday meal prepartions were a day-long event, Jim always managed to make some special treats that he knew the kids loved. My favorite was chicken livers on water chestnuts wrapped in bacon (yes, I had sophisticated taste for a kid). My brother liked jello cubes with canned fruit salad in them.

We still hear from Unkie Jim a few times a year. He will call out of the blue, never announcing himself, just launching into a joke followed by talk of  how much he dislikes the President or some other rant. When I don’t hear from Jim for awhile I worry — he is so very old now and he lives alone with an ancient dog companion. There are few people in the world of my memories more precious than Unkie Jim. How lucky we were to have him in our family.

Charmed, I’m Sure

Collecting charms as souvenirs of travels and important life events has been a hobby since I was a child. My parents presented me with my first bracelet on my tenth birthday. It had two starter charms already attached — a silver heart inscribed with my name on one side and my birthdate on the other and a lucky penny set with a silver backing inscribed “Keep Me and Never Go Broke” – but the intent was that I should add charms to it as the years progressed. And add I did. That very year we set off for several months on an extended holiday touring Europe. My bracelet documents our stopping points: Paris, Amsterdam, London, Stratford-on-Avon, Wales, Scotland, Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Switzerland, Austria, German, Lichtenstein, Monaco, and Italy. The bracelet ends with a bucket of champagne, an odd charm for a little girl, but it marks our safe return and celebration of a wonderful summer.

I can still quite vividly remember poking through tourist shops looking for unique charms. In those days I was partial to charms with enamel decoration, my favorite being Harlequin from the Tivoli Gardens gift shop. Such elaborately decorated charms are extremely rare today as are those with intricately moving parts. My first bracelet sports three charms with moving parts — a windmill from Holland with spinning slats, Queen Elizabeth’s carriage with rotating wheels, and a Swiss cuckoo clock whose chains and weights can be pulled in and out of the clock.

Our world travels continued in subsequent years and I had to start a second bracelet and a third. These bracelets begin the record of my teenage years as well and the travel charms are interspersed with tiny cheerleaders, drama masks, and diplomas. I have not really looked at these bracelets with fresh eyes for years, and in doing so I am cast back in time so vividly that images of those events are crowding my brain with nostalgia. There is a charm from a monastery in Weston, Vermont that was given to me by a devout friend of the family — a wonderful woman who I lived with briefly during a difficult period in my life. She was my shepherd quite literally but tragically she died very young, already having lost her husband to war.

How long has it been since I thought about my collection of oriental fans? My little fan charm, enamelled with blue and white, brings back the image of my bedroom wall decorated with lovely fans. And even sweeter, it reminds me of my Dad — for it was he who would take me to Chinatown for lunch, always to be followed by a stroll through a favorite gift shop to treat me to a new fan. I can remember our evaluations of the fans as we opened them to reveal their silk  painting and elaborately carved handles. Having made my difficult choice, I would spend the car ride home opening and closing my fan, periodically reaching over to fan my father as he drove.

The strangest charm on my bracelets is a tiny replica of the Rock of Gibraltar. Its silver cragginess is insufficient to make it evident what the jagged lump is. I love it — we had such a happy day trip to the island of Gibraltar which was to be our staging point for a journey into Africa. The Afrika charm is an enamelled shield with the word Afrika across the top and an African native hunter going for the kill under a shade palm.  Nestled near the Afrika shield is my high school diploma charm. That souvenir of academic passage seem oddly out of place surrounded by travel charms.

The other three charm bracelets leave my youth behind and mark the significant moments in my married life. There is a tiny photo replica of my wedding invitation and wedding cake. There are charms for my college life, travels with my husband, and for my first jobs (a manual typewriter, a music staff and notes, and a bird (to represent my work at a Nature Federation). Upon the birth of my daughter my husband bought me my first gold charm bracelet. It has become filled with mementos of motherhood and the hobbies that have defined my middle  years. There is a crazy frog (the symbol of my husband) and an circle that says I’ll Never Stop Loving You.

My newest bracelet is a departure from the others. It is a Scandinavian concept in charm bracelets in which charms slide along a snake chain rather than being attached to links. The charms are more abstract. I have several blown glass charms separating the silver ones. My favorite is a silver handbag. This bracelet is only about half full and I am itching to return to Denmark to add to it.

My daughter will inherit these tinkling treasures. I hope she cherishes them and keeps up the tradition. My life is captured in the miniatures. It is fun to wear my memories.

Remote Possibilities — Why Velociraptors Rule the Planet

I am meeting my friend for dinner tonight and the inevitable question will come up — “Where do you want to go?” Whoever asks the question first has a leg up but only temporarily. The recipient usually says “I don’t know, you choose.” And so the commitment ball bounces back and forth until one party tires and offers a suggestion. Why are we averse to declaring our desire to eat at our favorite restaurant? Same thing happens with “What do you want to watch on TV tonight?” “What movie shall we see?” It is a rare day when someone says “I am watching House Hunters at 7:30.”

In television viewing, this indecision leads to channel surfing — an activity that has killed many a marriage. Men and women surf differently and have low tolerance for the opposing method. Men grip the remote with two hands in a hold similar to that used to strangle chickens. One hand holds the remote and the other presses the buttons. They only resort to one hand when the remote fails to work properly and a series of increasingly irate clicks is needed. For that men use the “Storm Trooper Salute” posture. Men tend to be tiringly systematic about surfing since there are dozens of sports channels and each one might possibly be of interest. They linger at each channel. If there happens to be an advertisement on they watch it until the regular programming resumes. Thus surfing four channels can take half an hour. They also tend to stop if there is anyone on who reaches seven or above on the Obnoxious Index. This includes the Oxyclean salesman and several political commentators. On the flip side, if Hilary Clinton is being interviewed the channel wait time does not even register on the clock. Same goes for Martha Stewart and any home shopping channel featuring Tiffany-style lighting.

Men take the remote with them when they leave the room to get a snack or use the bathroom. The more secure men might occassionally leave the remote on the ottoman with the cautionary words, “Don’t touch that.” This, of course, is the equivalent of throwing  down the guantlet — a challenge no red-blooded woman can ignore. Once in the woman’s hand, she dexterously manipulates the buttons with her thumb. Since all the channels worth viewing are stored in the Favorites memory, it takes a mere minute to peruse the entire night’s viewing options.

Manufacturers of remotes will soon realize that they can save a bundle by preprogramming the Favorites — they are, afterall, Universal. The channels include House and Garden TV, The Food Network, QVC, HSN, ShopNBC, HBO (for the Sopranos), and Spike TV (yes, that’s right). You will notice that Lifetime, “the channel for women” is not included. Women do not want to watch reruns of Ozzie and Harriet. Women also watch baseball and tennis, and some Vegas Poker Smackdown, but not enough to qualify for preprogramming.

If a man has been foolish enough to abandon the remote and returns from the kitchen with his beer to find that his episode of  Mannix has been replaced by Iron Chef Morimoto cooking five dishes featuring boar’s head, the ensuing conversation will go something like this: “I was watching a show.” “You have seen it 500 times.” “That may be true but that does not give you the right to arbitrarily change the channel.” “Why not, you do it all the time.” “Com’mon, give me the remote.” “If you make a fuss about this, I can tell you that several more Mondays will pass you by before you get some.” “Oh, come on honey it is only a half hour show.” . . . Silence. . . “Oh, @#$%, all right keep the remote. I am going to the basement.” Husband slinks off; wife gets off couch and retrieves his forgotten beer, settles into his recliner and continues watching TV.

Newlyweds will attempt the “Let’s find something we will both enjoy” but this tends to lead to sex — at least for awhile. After about 13 months there is usually a shift in which sex is replaced by documentaries about velociraptors, which explains the growth of both the Science Channel and the National Geographic Channel. Couples with longevity tend to agree on watching reruns of Cadfael or Poirot. Those with really successful marriages have two TVs. Each spouse watches his or her favorite programming undisturbed. When the TVs go off for the night, they are relaxed and happy and the Newlywed cycle begins all over again. The moral of the story is that it is better to watch alone than it is to sleep alone. Winning the battle of the Remote is a Pyrrhic victory.

Linshaolin’s New Fiction Blog

Dear Readers — I want to give you a sneak preview of my new fiction blog Penny Poetry, Dime Novels. In an earlier post I had promised you a Romance novel and have received many pleas for just such an adventure. And so, the first installment novel on the new site will try to please you. But I have promised my daughter, whose sensitivities are delicate, that such a Romance will have bodice-ripping in only the most modest degree. The rest of the Romance shall be framed in the context of Murder and Deceit — literary contrivances that can offend no one I am sure.

Please take a peek and let me know whether you thirst for more.

You Seem Like an Intelligent Person

As a person with Parkinson’s, I am especially atuned to anything that either confirms or denies that I am creeping into dementia. When I forget a name or a password I am sent immediately into a near hysterical state — certain that this is a harbinger of the worst possible fate I can imagine. I know, intellectually, that it is silly to worry so. I still work full-time at a demanding job, I write, I study and learn new things. I also know that worrying about it is not going to change my fate. What will be will be. And yet, I am always taken aback when one of my many medical advisers says to me “You seem like an intelligent person.”

This happens frequently. Perhaps medical school includes a class on Comforting Things to Say to Patients. If so, they need to work on refining this one. “You are an intelligent person” would be good as would “There is no indication that you are losing your marbles.” But what is the purpose of “you seem“? It sounds both wishy-washy and condescending. “You seem like an intelligent person, so you get to share in the decision-making about your treatment”? Or “You seem like an intelligent person, but I am not really sure”?

Declaration of my seeming intelligence is usually followed by a lecture on the need to lose weight, like this is some sort of revelation. I sit quietly in my chair thinking to myself “Really? No? I never noticed.” Having a doctor tell you to lose weight is like a 24-year-old tennis coach telling you to bend your knees. Believe me, if I did not have agonizing arthritis in my knees I would bend them — not that you would have a clue, coach. I guess my seeming intelligence is not quite up to fighting the battle of the bulge. And yes, readers, duh, I do know that losing weight will make my knees feel better.

For those of you who go to the doctor and have an absence of the “You seem like an intelligent person,” I am sure that it means nothing. I am sure it means that there is such substantial evidence in your favor that it is not even worth discussing. Please do not interpret the absence as a silent comment on your aptitude. If you are subsequently showered with booklets, video tapes, and calorie counting slide rulers along with a prescription for a 12-week clinically supervised weight loss clinic, please do not interpret this as a judgment that you can not “do it alone.” No, no. Just because I received only the simple instruction “go forth and lose weight” has no bearing on our comparative level of intelligence. After all, you seem like an intelligent person too.

Cat Tales

This afternoon I have a doctor appointment to have a minor boo looked at — but I am sure when he sees me he will comment on the fact that, from head to toe, I am a giant laceration. There are scratches everywhere. No, I was not in an accident . . . I have a new kitten and a feisty one at that. Many of you met Nero in an earlier post. For the first few weeks I called him Squeeky as a nickname. Now I call him The Terror. Nero will hurtle himself across the room and leap upon me, climb up my body digging those pointy sharp claws into my skin, and then wrap himself around my arm to initiate a fun game of Rapid Destruction of the Body Parts.

Last night my daughter and I joined forces in hopes of trimming his claws. We waited until he was asleep on my shoulder. Gently, gently I spread his paw in order to protrude his claws. My daughter slipped the tiny clippers around the nail and snipped. Nero stirred. We attempted a second nail. Nero became a squirming mass of flailing claws — my arm was shredded before I could let go. Do they prescribe tranquilizers for cats?

Nero angrily slunk under the coffee table glaring at us. When he felt it was safe he bounded out of the room. I did not see him again until 3:30 in the morning when he climbed into the bed and under the sheets. I felt his soft little body making its way to the foot of the bed. He stopped mid way and bit me on the bottom. Not the way one wants to greet the day. Nero, sensing he had done wrong, bolted out from under the sheets, ricocheted off the wall and out of the room.

I have had cats all my life and have many favorite memories of them. My recently departed and much beloved Muffin was an indoor cat. She was frail and delicate and no match for the outside especially since we live near a woodland reservation — many acres of racoons, fox, and other creatures. Despite her frailty, Muffin was eager to go outside and would make a dash for the door every time it was opened. On the few occasions in which she made it, she would disappear for a few minutes and then return, mewing frantically to be let in.

One morning when I opened the door to get the newspaper, I was amazed to see the cat sitting outside on the doorstep — she must have been there all night. I went to pick her up, cooing my “poor Muffie”, when she looked at me like I was crazed and then took off heading across the street and into the neighbors yard. I was appalled and alarmed — and I was in my nightgown. I took off after her running through the neighbor’s back yard. I saw the cat disappear into the woodlands. I looked everywhere, disregarding the stares of the joggers I passed along the path. Crazy lady wandering through the woods in her nightie. Muffin was lost and I was in tears.

I went home sniffling and wondering what I would say to our little girl. I opened the door and went into the hallway. There was Muffin standing on the stairs. I was totally confused, how could this be? And then I realized that I had been chasing some other cat all this time. No wonder the cat had bolted from me! I sat on the stairs with Muffie and we had a good laugh.

Before Muffie there was Stinky (named after a character in Heinlein’s Stranger in as Strange Land). Stinky was a Maine Coon Cat — a hulking brute of a boy, all ginger fur and love — the sweetest kitty. Once when he was eating I accidentally stepped on his tail. He made the weirdest choking sound and then went into a ballistic dance of distress. I was sure I had killed him. Once he calmed down he hid under the bed. No amount of coaxing would bring him out. I called the emergency vet number and at last a vet called me back. In tears I described what happened fearing that the vet would say he would have to be hospitalized immediately. The vet said, “Sounds like he is pissed off at you.” That was it, years of medical training going unused. He went on, “You’d be pissed off too if someone stepped on your tail while you were eating.”