7 Things about me Meme

Abi at Snippets and Blabbery  tagged me for this. The Rules: Each player starts with 7 random facts/habits about themselves. People who are tagged need to write their own blog post with their 7 things as well as these rules. You need to tag 7 others and list their names on your blog. Remember to leave a comment for them letting them know they have been tagged and to read your blog.

1. I went to five different high schools, the last one after I was married! Ok, it took me awhile to complete my high school education, but I breezed through college getting a BA in three years.
2. I have had many odd jobs including being a GoGo dancer, a foot model, and a receptionist where the phone never rang and no visitors ever came.
3. I have always had at least one cat and generally name them after literary characters. My current fur ball is Nero Wolfe Kitty.
4. I fell off my bike while craning my neck to see into the Richard Nixon compound in Key Biscayne and was immediately surrounded by secret service agents. This was on the same day that agents in a motorboat had to tell me not to waterski behind the compound — I had no idea I was encroaching on Presidential waters!
5. I have a four-harness floor loom and a tapestry loom — did someone say “Child of the sixties?”
6. I did not learn to drive until I was in my forties.
7. I am a huge Star Trek geek. “Such joy. Such gratitude.”

Who I tag:

1. ellaella at From Scratch
2. Sarah at Waxing Poetic
3. gs at Underdogishere
4. pistolpete at Necessary Therapy
5. Amy at southernfriedfatty
6. Shaw at Shaw Malcolm
7. Ben at Ben’s Blog

Can’t wait to see the 7 Things for these illustrious bloggers!

Newton’s Cheeseburger — the Missing Force

I have been on a bit of a silly tangent recently but now it is time to focus more seriously. I want to share with you a matter that is concerning me greatly. It  has to do with physics. I am not a physicist by any means, so I hope my explanations are clear.

Strong force, weak force, electromagnetic force, gravitational force — these are the known forces that act on everything in the universe. No matter escapes their impact — except for ketchup. Ketchup forms its own class of matter exerting its own force unique in the vastness of space and time. Why have I never heard about the Ketchup Force before? you ask. The sad fact is that the KF has eluded scientists despite the overwhelming evidence supporting it’s existence. It is an accident of history that Newton ate his burgers without condiments — otherwise I am sure he would have included KF in his Principia.

Before going any further, please look down at your shirt. It is clean and stain-free right? Now go get a hotdog bun and put ketchup in in and take a bite. Now look at your shirt. There is a blob of ketchup on your chest or tummy (depending on whether you also put a hot dog in the bun and repeated this experiment over and over until you were satisfied that you had a statistically valid sampling). Some unseen force drew the ketchup from the bun and transported it to your shirt. This is not gravity — in gravity two objects exert a pull on each other and you see no part of your shirt flying up to the  bun right? If you repeat the experiment a thousand times you will find a thousand blobs of ketchup.

But Linshaolin, you say, ketchup is a recent invention. Is this a new force? Please dear readers, if a tree falls in the forest where no one can witness does this mean the tree did not fall? The Ketchup Force has been in the Universe since the big bang first sent blobs of ketchup hurtling outwards amidst the stellar matter. It took billions of years for the blobs to coalasce and millions after that for Man to accidentally re-create the substance with tomatoes, vinegar, and sugar.

But Linshaolin, you say, I also have gravy stains on my shirt. Does gravy have its own force? No you silly, you are just messy. Who has ever heard of a Gravy Force.?

July 4th barbeque time is upon us — a perfect opportunity for you to observe the KF in Life’s science laboratory. Please document your findings and report back on Thursday. I am preparing a paper for the highly regarded journal Nature and can use some additional data. Thanks in advance!

70 – 18 = 58 (Body and Soul Math)

My birth records indicate that I am fifty-eight years old. I was having a really hard time understanding this since my body could have sworn I was seventy. I have Parkinson’s and bum knees from arthritis. My eyesight is fine — for an ostrich. For a human I need a couple of coke bottles to see. When Warner Brothers commissioned the Foghorn Leghorn cartoons they used me as a model — hangy neck and sagging middle. You get the picture . . . my body is old.

Then I got to thinking. I  have acne and psychological arrested development. Mentally I am no more than eighteen. I spend my free time playing Lara Croft video games and watching Star Trek. My idea of the pinnacle of comedy greatness is the Three Stooges. The lettuce in my veggie drawer in the fridge is more mature than I am.

So, with a bit of math we have the answer. Body age minus mental age gives true age. How old are you?

On Stage with Linshaolin

I did a bit of summer stock theatre and even spent a semester at a conservatory of music and drama before realizing that I was not going to be the next Sarah Bernhardt. The ego is quite marvelous at defending itself, OK deluding itself, so for at least a year I lived with the certain conviction that I would eventually reside in a posh Park Avenue apartment while enjoying a long run on Broadway. My certainty was not dulled despite my first review in which the theatre critic summed up my performance as “adequate.” Things picked up considerably with my second review in which the reviewer raved “. . . while short on acting she was long on legs.” My Tony was practically in hand.

I know in my heart that my performance as witch-accuser Abigail in The Crucible would have had more conviction if my fellow cast members did not all sound like they came from South Boston. ” It is just so difficult to retain credibility when the seventeenth century townsfolk sound like JFK. “I dahnced for the devil; I sawr him.” A fine actress can not really be expected to perform in a sea of inauthentic sounds. And to boot, the costume mistress made a slight mistake – our hats were dutch girl hats instead of pilgrim hats and no amount of flattening them with an iron could control the little corners that kept poking out.

Summer stock theatre is a wonderful venue for young people to practice their craft. Our little troupe consisted of twenty or so young American thesbians and one girl from France. She joined the troupe after the season was well underway and all the summer romances have been carved out. We were not prepared for Miss Fifi — she was stunninglly endowed. It is a marvel of human adaptability that she was able to stand upright. The young men in the troupe flocked around  her, charmed by her accent, barely able to stand upright themselves. Miss Fifi liked to do her work while wearing a bikini and one afternoon she was outside washing  flats when several drivers became so absorbed in Fifi watching that they drove into each other and destroyed part of the theatre’s foyer. Fifi was asked to wear clothes when working outside after that.

But I digress from my all important acting expereinces. I did get one very good review — hailed as “remarkably convincing.” I was playing a drunken actress who is supposoed to pass out on a couch and wake up at the close of the scene. I did my drunken speech and threw myself onto the couch, clonking my head on the wooden armrest in the process and knocking myself unconscious. At the time of the clonking I was wearing an elaborate necklace made  up of thousands of tiny beads. It broke on impact and beads shot up into my nostrils, laying dormant waiting for me to arise. Through sheer dramatic instinct I came too just as the scene called for me to wake up and stagger across the stage — I did just that, having no idea where I was, spewing tiny beads from both nostrils. The applause was deafening.

We rounded out the summer with a rousing week of Gypsy in which I was one of the strippers. We had used up all the money earmarked for costumes for the season so the strippers were forced to appear in their bras and panties with a bit of fushia boa feather strategically sewn on. Since I was playing Elektra, the stripper who lights up, I also wore a string of Christmas lights and a battery pack. Several summers of such productions exhausted me creatively and the seeds of doubt about a lifetime enduring this level of demand began to grow.

Occassionally I still regret having given up life on the stage. Perhaps  I did not give my talent sufficient time to develop. Perhaps I was hasty in taking my final curtain call. Now I will never know whether Linshaolin would have been a name on everyones’ lips. Despite my encouraging start, I left the Theatre to other talents greater than my own. Perhaps it was for the best.

Junk Mail

Our postman’s name is John. He is a Deadhead. We have a nice chat every day about Jerry Garcia or the Bush Administration. I like John and feel badly that he has to carry twice his weight in useless mail that gets tossed before it is even glanced at. I am sure he doesn’t care — more mail means more letter carriers. Steady employment is a good thing. But I fret about junk mail a lot.

The little part of me that is a tree hugger is appalled at the amount of paper that gets junked — our town has limited paper recycling. Junk mailers love unrecycleable glossy paper and colored inks, glue and staples. The anti-scent part of me loathes the postcards that arrive saturated with perfume. Instant headache. The frugal part of me loves the product samples which I snatch from their over-packaged wrappings, feeling guilty all the way to the drawer that houses these give-aways. Is so much paper and plastic necessary? I have never been persuaded to buy anything by advertising that I receive in the mail. In fact, I boycott the worst junk mail offenders.

Starting in September each year the holiday catalogs begin to arrive — LL Bean, Lands End, Winter Silks, Crate and Barrel, William Sonoma, fruit cakers, fresh fruiters, candiers, candle sellers, toys (and our kid is 23), and on and on. Not just once but monthly, even weekly the same companies send stuff through our mail slot. I like catalogs and I sometimes (rarely) order from them — but one per season would be enough. There is no need for the Fall catalog, the late Fall catalog, the early Winter. . .  you get the picture. I do 90% of my shopping online — no environmental damage.

I hate bank junk mail, especially when they send unsolicited credit cards — making me take the extra step of having to shred my mail makes me very cranky. You don’t get my business that way Mr. Bank. And I hate those nasty folks who make their envelopes look like Important mail. Those go in the trash without opening. I’ll take my chances that I might actually toss real mail. I get a huge laugh out of the sales approach where you get sent a letter and then a call to follow up. “Hi, I’m calling to follow up on our correspondence.” I don’t think so. Thank heavens for the Do Not Call list!

Worst junk mail offenders are the grocery store circulars. They get shredded going through the mail slot and make a mess. Real mail gets lost inside their pages. They are made with cheap ink that gets on my hands. They arrive the day after the coupons expire.  Grocery store, I’ll pay you a penny more per item if you promise to stop. Think of the revenue!

I have been  receiving every month a shrink-wrapped magazine about the African-American music industry. It is addressed to me and I have no idea why I receive it. I am not Black nor a musician.  I toss it along with the monthly shrink-wrapped magazine for preteen girls which I also did not ask for. Unless Bonnie Bell has started making chin hair depilatories, I have no use for that sort of advertising vehicle.

Junk mail does have some good uses. My daughter makes collages from the colored advertisements. I have levelled the air conditioner with a couple of the magazines. The Foodmaster supplement was complicit in a recent fly killing. And John stays employed by the U.S. Postal Service.

Hey Goodlook’n!

I am sure you have seen couples in which the man is far more attractive than his mate and you have wondered “How did that battle ax land such a handsome guy?” The question is followed by further speculation as to the woman’s wealth or her connection to the Mob. My husband Lorne and I are such a couple — when we were young I was a cute enough thing but he was an Adonis. And as the years have progressed he has aged like a fine wine. I have aged like a stilton.

We belong to a health club that offers all sorts of classes and my husband takes full advantage of his membership. He started out with Pilates only to discover at his first class that he was the sole male doing the Hundreds surrounded by a dozen or so sixty year old divorcees and widows. The next class was about twice as large, the grapevine being particularly effective, but hubby was still the Alpha (and only) male. The ladies, by some marvelous coincidence, had all purchased new gymn togs and coral lipstick. The club had never seen such dedicated attendance at the Pilates class. Lorne was like Pigpen, but instead of being surrounded by a swirl of dust and dirt, everywhere he went he was circled by a cloud of ladies.

The first time I visited the Pilates class and forged my way like an ice cutter through the sea of admirers, the ladies glared mightily at the intrusion. But that was nothing compared to the look when my husband gave me a peck and introduced me. The horror of it all! The shock. The disbelief. He is married to HER??? Suddenly the dense fog of Channel No. 5 lifted as the ladies staggered backwards in disbelief. Frozen smiles of politeness failed to mask the chagrin. Where there had been a loud hum of animated chatter there was now disappointed silence. Until I left the room. When I left the room I paused outside the door long enough to hear the sounds of group movement once again toward the “watering hole” and the increase in the soft cooing of the females of the species.

The dear Old Boy is pretty much oblivious to his effect on the ladies, thinking that people are just mighty friendly. I have pointed out several times that his being invited to  join the ladies tennis league might possibly be motivated by more than friendliness on the gals’ part. Luckily his tennis schedule was already maxed out so he could gracefully decline. In addition to Pilaties and tennis there are the art class ladies — the fan club ranging from a twenty year old with facial tattoos to a middle-aged Japanese woman with only enough English to say “would you like to see my etchings?”

I like having a handsome husband. In addition to being nice to look at for thirty nine years, he has added to my mystery. As the ladies watch us walk hand in hand to the parking lot they are thinking “What does she have?” Frankly, the answer is I don’t know. But I am glad I have it!

Things that Made Me Happy this Week

• Seeing my husband’s work in an art show
• Getting my daughter’s drawing framed
• Sleeping through the night on Thursday
• Losing a pound at my Weight Watchers weigh in
• Making vacation reservations
• Having shrimp tempura
• Going to lunch with a friend
• Seeing the ocean and walking in the sand
• A nest of baby geese
• Sunshine and a light breeze
• Salt water taffy
• Sitting on my porch glider
• Watching squirrels play
• Nero Kitty sleeping on my shoulder
• Cleaning my office
• Peonies in full bloom
• Getting to 2500 hits on my blog

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

One of our favorite early video games featured a character named Bubsy who preceded every calamatous event by saying “What could possibly go wrong?” This expression was integrated into the lexicon of our family and is used frequently on such occassions as, say, just before rewiring a bathroom fixture.

“What could possibly go wrong?” is the mantra I say before I press the Confirm Bid button during an eBay auction. Experience has shown me that eBay and I don’t mix well, and yet, I perversely continue to take advantage of this dubious shopping experience. My first eBay auction was for a LeSportSac tote bag. My daughter had been desparately wanting the brown with pink trim tote that had been discontinued. I had already scoured every store in the state and I checked on eBay every day. At last — there is was. I did not even read the description I was so excited to see the photograph. The bidding was tough and I paid way more than I had wanted to, but I spoil my kid. I eagerly awaited the arrival of the package and was quite mystified when the package arrived. It was only about six inches square. “My, my,” I thought, “they have really folded that tote bag up tight.” Noooo. I opened the package and pulled out a miniature LeSportSac tote bag — all of six inches across! I had purchased a very expensive minibag. AAARRRGGGG. I laughed so hard at my own folly that my family all came running to see what it was all about. I could not explain for hours without cracking up at myself all over again.

Then there was the time I stopped at Dunk’n Donuts. Now you know I am not supposed to go there — I am genetically incapable of getting only a coffee. So I pulled into the parking lot, knowing full well that God was going to punish me for this transgression. I stepped out of the car and closed the self-locking door while simultaneously my keyring broke and all the keys fell off scattering on the ground — all but one. The car key managed to fall off the keyring landing inside the car a milisecond before the door slammed (and locked) shut. I had to call my husband to drive over with another key and of course I had to listen to the inevitable snide remark about donuts not being on the Weight Watchers plan. 

And then there are the many “what could possibly go wrong” projects — most of which involve glue and the emergency room. Recently, while hand hemming pants, I managed to sew the pants to the pants I was wearing. And that is not the first time. I sewed the sleeve of my shirt to a quilt in the sewing machine and was unable to move my arm. Once again, hubby to the rescue to pull my shirt off over my head to free me. Lesson — do not wear loose fitting clothes while sewing.

Never say “what could possibly go wrong” before kyaking in the ocean. My first attempt was almost my last on earth. I popped my considerable self into the kyak and immediately inverted like a rubber duckie, creating such a force of suction that I was pulled head first into the sand. So there I was under water with my head in quicksand and my bottom in the kyak above me, quickly running out of air. I remember thinking that this would be positively too embarrassing a way to die. It took both my husband and a life guard to pull me out and set me right side up. Later in the day hubby went to try out wind surfing. I declined.

On our next vacation I did try white water rafting. When we booked our excursion it never even crossed my mind that this might be a bit dangerous. However, when we were at the site the excursion leader told us to get into wet suits. “This is a level 4 river,” he said. “And this is the coldest river in North America. If you fall in you have about three minutes to get to shore.” Needless to say, I gripped the raft for dear life, finding muscle strength I did not know I possessed. We lost the fellow who was sitting in front of me when we were upended and then crashed down in the swirling torrent. I turned to watch him being carried along the river, losing sight as we rounded a bend. (Luckily he managed to make it to shore and we saw him back at the base camp.) It was only after we came to shore and shed our wet suits that I turned to my husband and we said simultaneously “What could possibly go wrong?”

Por at Kooking, Wurse at Speling

My mother must have been double dipping when she dunked me in the old metaphorical river Styx — I have two Achilles’ Heels. I can not cook and I can not spell. Speaking of my mother, I blame her for both these shortcomings. She was, at best, a disinterested cook, and truth be told, when she did cook her meals were “creative” — she found many ways of serving hot dogs.  Mom enjoyed telling a story about when she was a young woman living with roommates. They took turns cooking and had a rule that anyone who complained about the food had to do the dishes. Once my mother, having been given a plate of burnt beans, said “These are burned!” Realizing what she  had done, and not wanting to  have to do the dishes, she quickly continued, “Just the way I like them!” Most of Mom’s meals were “just the way I like them.”

Like all good housewives of the 1950s, Mom dutifully instructed me in how to cook since a woman’s place was in the kitchen. I discovered that  she was closet reading The Feminine Mystique, which is probably why things ended up as they did for me kitchen-wise.  I learned the importance of not throwing away the box of brownie mix until the brownies were safely in the oven. I learned how to keep Junket from disintegrating into its constituent parts while transporting it to the table. I learned that Wonder Bread retained its floppiness while other breads hardened over the course of a week. I learned how to pry Boston brown bread from its can without mangling it. And, most importantly, I learned how to convert individual serving boxes of breakfast cereal into bowls to avoid dirtying a dish.

As a result of this high level of culinary training, my husband prefers to do the cooking in the house. He refers to my dinners as Versafood. This is a reference to when we were in college and the cafeteria food service was provided by a company called Versafood. You remember what college food was like. ‘Nuf said. Well, my husband is a good cook and I get out of meal preparation. I can take a few jibes about my cooking in exchange for that.

 Mom’s disinterest in cooking was transformed into Julia Child worthy enthusiasm when company was involved. For company she always put on a show — her favorite being Ten Boy Curry. The name derives from its roots in India where it took ten servants to serve the elaborate meal. After a couple of dry martinis with olives, Mom was able to do the work of the ten servants by herself. The table setting looked spectacular and exotic with all the little dishes of Indian treats to go along with the curry. The guests were suitably impressed and appreciative. My brother and I got leftover curry in our lunch boxes for the next week. Mom would placate us by tossing in a Hostess Snowball to ensure silence.

The spelling disfunction is a result of being traumatized by mother at a young age. I was sent to a Bible camp (despite the fact that my parents were aetheists — I guess they failed to read the brochure adequately) where we were forced to write home each day after dinner. In my first letter home I was reporting on the prayer service and on what we had to eat and described the meal as “pryers followed by casseroil and peers.” Mom never, ever, ever let me forget that spelling and how cute it was. Every potential boyfriend heard about my letter home. I am sure that story came up at some point during the speeches at my wedding. Thanks Mom. So blame mother for my spellig and kooking.

Office Supplies

I have wanted a label maker for years — how enchanting to have a little machine that shoots out tendrils of laminated paper with neat, legible words. But for years I have denied myself, thinking that this ultimate toy was really not Necessary. Yesterday I buckled — justifying my extravagance with a valid reason for making the purchase. Parkinson’s has taken away my ability to write by hand — my scrawl is legible to no one, including myself. How can I make labels if I can’t write? Frankly it took very little persuasion. I did not even have the argument with myself that I could use Avery labels that print out on my deskjet.

So, fortified with solid reasoning behind my spending I headed off to Staples. Some women like to go to the mall and buy shoes. I like to go to Staples and buy office supplies. It is dangerous for me there. Glossy pens with cushioned grips beckon me. Electric sharpeners promise beautiful, even pencil points. Binders, presentation folios, file sorters all call me like Sirens. And so I wandered the aisles of Staples filling my cart with supplies that promised to make me more efficient, organized, and definitely sharp looking. Then I saw the boxes.

Smooth black boxes trimmed with silver corners and snaps. Clean, sturdy boxes. Expensive boxes. I bought every one they had (and the label maker). Loaded with my goodies I went home, eager to Organize. It took me an hour to unwrap and assemble the boxes — their snap closures were the devil to align and snap shut. Nero Kitty (aka The Terror) made this activity more challenging by insisting on sitting in the boxes while I tried to snap them closed. Finally I completed one and Nero went to sleep inside it.

The label maker is another story. It came hermetically sealed in indestructible plastic. It took garden shears to pierce the exoskeleton and pry the contents out. I unfolded the Users Guide. It was filled with illustrations and minute gray type. I got out my magnifying glass and still could not read the instructions. I went to my husband’s office and got his super delux magnifying glass. The little words were “to feed hit print shift”. Huh? I looked for a key that said Print Shift. None. Then I hit in sequence the Print and then the Shift key. Nada. Then I hit them together. Wrrrrrrrr. Out comes a lovely strip of laminated paper. Success! I use about twelve feet of paper trying out various styles and sizes of type finally settling on all caps outline type. Very professional looking.

Motivated by my new storage cubes, all neatly labeled, I began to sift through my office jumgle. I tossed two trash bags full of stuff, found some bills that were dated March, filed my bank statements (18 of them still in their envelopes), and took to Goodwill all the clothes that had been in a pile waiting to go to the donation depot for months. With my office ship shape I can now move on to the much delayed office painting. But that is another blog for another day.

A Diet of Disgust

I have all but stopped watching television. Save for a few specialty channels (Sci-Fi, HGTV, Tennis etc.) the rest of the offerings are, to put it plainly, disgusting. Why anyone would want to feed on a diet of “reality TV” is beyond me. Unfortunately my husband and daughter do not share my sensibilities so I am subjected to a background noise of invective, shrill opinionating, and ridiculously rude commentary.

The downward trend started with a couple of talk show producers who had the brilliant idea that the American public would eat up a new format in which the underbelly of  the nation paraded its ignorance and hostility for all to see. The more screaming and fisticuffs the better. Ratings soared. Being loud and rude became the desired behaviors for everyone who got a spot in front of the camera — from athletes to political commentators. Viewers ate it up. Instead of America the Beautiful we became America the Purient.

Anyone who has seen the reality TV show about turning sixteen has dined on the pond scum of television. Filthy rich parents of disgustingly bratty teens spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on their birthday parties only to have them whine and sulk because their hair did not turn out right or their new Mercedes is silver and not white. In a nation where people go without medical treatment because they can not afford insurance, broadcasting this type of wretched excess is sickening.

Politics fares little better –  it is now no longer possible to get the “news.” Today, despite the fact that the President was at a G8 summit, CNN, MSNBC, and Fox all lead their news with the Paris Hilton Gets Out of Jail story. I am sorry, but that is not news — it is fodder for People Magazine at best. Every network has its political agenda and shamelessly editorializes while pretending to be reporting. And the acknowledged commentators are not interested in debate — they are interested in who can shout the loudest, humiliate their guests, and come off as being the most aggressive. No wonder most young Americans turn to the Daily Show for their “news.”

When will we have had enough of this diet of disgust? I’d love to see issues being fairly debated — it would be nice to learn something, get perspective and understanding. I’d love to once again watch a talk show in which the talk was about entertainment, science, music, dog grooming . . .  anything except “your wife’s baby was fathered by your best friend.”

Please join me in boycotting this kind of television and its sponsors. Let’s fill our heads with things that are a bit more palatable than this trash.

The Biopsy

I do not believe that surgeons are supposed to yell “Whoa Nellie!” when looking at an ultrasound of one’s thyroid during a biopsy. Despite the exclamation I was not taken by surprise since the previous week while palpating my neck the endocrinologist shouted “Mother McCree!” Yes, I do have the mother of all thyroid nodules.

So I lay there in the procedure room while they trooped in a hefty portion of the graduating class of Thyoid Extraction Medical School to look at the ultrasound and to get a chance to press on my windpipe. “You are doing fine, Mrs. Shaolin.” If I charged for admission I could retire today.  One of the students was a particularly cheerful young man named Boris who kept up a running commentary of reassuring remarks. “Even if it is not cancerous you will want to take it out. It is displacing your carotid artery, which is a really good thing for us to do the biopsy but not for you in the long run. Are you quite comfortable? I am sorry we have to have your back arched so to hyper-extend your neck — hehe it really makes that baby pop out. Well now we use a spray anesthesia for this – I will spray your neck with something cold…here it goes…do you feel that? Yes it stings just a little bit.”

The head honcho impaled my neck with the Hattori Hanzo sword they used in Kill Bill and rotorootered it around for a bit. When he withdrew the sword, ok needle, I was surprised when my head did not fall off. I asked if that was it. The charming Boris answered, “Oh yes, that is it. It for that one. We take three more samples. It will be exactly the same for all three more.” Yippee.

Finally they all agreed that enough cells had been removed and that I had enough skin tissue left to keep my head from falling off. I was decorated with a necklace of band-aids. “You may notice some bruising,” said my friend Boris. “Just tell people you were strangled, hahaha.” The head honcho patted me on the shoulder. “Your doctor will have the results within a week.” A week! I have to wait a week? You think they could speed things up given that I have a Whoa Nellie situation here!

The Tai Chi Lesson

I recently started taking a Tai Chi class at my health club. The class is divided into two groups — the beginners (me) and the more advanced students (them). We are learning Form 42. I am not exactly sure what Form 42 is because when the Tai Chi master was explaining it he was also demonstrating some martial arts fancy steps and all I heard was “and so in Form 42 we . . .” the rest was lost in the air amidst a series of grunts as he blocked and chopped his way across the room.

Tai Chi Master Ben is really something. He is no more than twelve years old, which is odd since he says he studied in China for eight years with a Shaolin master. Master Ben is very attractive — which is why half the class is there. He is also very limber. When he demonstrates the form he looks like a ballet dancer. When the class does the form we look like rows of robots. Master Ben looks mildly distressed. “Not quite there yet class.” Master Ben can jump about five feet off the ground while turning in a complete circle. He advised us not to attempt such a thing just yet since most of us can not turn in a complete circle while standing.

Class begins with a half hour of stretching and meditation. We have to hold our arms out in a rounded position with the hands facing each other so that we can feel the energy flowing between our fingers. Master Ben thinks that having us hold this position for, lets say, seventeen minutes, is good for us — gives us ample opportunity to enter a meditative state. After ninety seconds of holding out my arms I begin to feel a burn in my shoulders. After three minutes my arms begin to sag into a strange shape that does not include the word “rounded”. I try to focus on breathing but all I can think about is the pain. I sneak a peek to see how many of my classmates have buckled and dropped their arms. I refuse to cave in to the pain. My brain enters a trance state in which I have visions of the Inferno. Just as I am about to curse Master Ben he begins his walk around the room to check each student’s posture and make small corrections. When he gets to me he does nothing. “Ok class, I guess we had better shake out those arms.” Before I started taking Prozac I would have felt that he did not attempt to adjust my form because it really is beyond correction; now I assume he said nothing because my form might be beyond correction.  

Master Ben instructs us to get on the floor and stretch our legs out as far as we can and to lean in until our faces are low to the floor as we can get. One of the students, who clearly works for the circus, spreads her legs out and leans in placing her head on the floor between her legs. Master Ben smiles happily. My legs spread about twenty three inches apart and I yelp as I lean forward as one of my groin muscles pops. Then we move on to more pain by holding the horse stance while Master Ben tells us about being beaten by his Shaolin master when after twenty seven hours of holding the horse stance he let one of  his elbows drop three centimeters.

Master Ben does a series of jumps and kicks around the room as we take a water break. He walks like Jar Jar Binks, explaining to us that we must be fluid, as if we have no bones. Time to begin Form 42. I believe that I am still on Form one. Balance weight on the right leg, lift the left leg and place down, bend the knees, arms  up, arms down, circle, block, strike, pivot, twirl, swirl, gyrate, land, punch, swivel, lunge, back, forth, form a ball, dance the loopty loop, and repeat.

Literary Detectives

I adore detectives. There is nothing better than going to bed with one. The pillows plumped up, the sheets cool and tightly tucked in, a steaming  . . . cup of tea on my night table. . . bliss. It is at moments like this that I wish I still smoked. I can be fickle with my detectives — one night Lord Peter Wimsey, the next Hercule Poirot or Nero Wolfe. There are other times when I am steadfast: Sherlock Holmes from A Study in Scarlet to The Retired Colourman and no one else will do.

My brother was a Sherlock Holmes fanatic when we were growing up and wore a deerstalker cap until he was 17 (at which time he started  wearing the leather cap made famous by the Beatles). Living in such close proximity to someone  devoted to the meerschaum smoking sleuth, I naturally was drawn into the world of 221B Baker Street myself. In fact, my brother and I made a special trip to London when I was ten to track down the detective only to discover that the address did not actually exist. The closest thing to it was a room over a pub that was a complete re-creation of  Holmes’ apartment. We had to pay a shilling to see it. Our mother waited for us in the pub enjoying a beer while we poked around. My brother told me that Sherlock Holmes was out on a case and that is why he was not there. I guess it was like preserving the belief in Santa Claus.

As an adult, I was introduced to my first detective, Lord Peter Wimsey, by a colleague, “Mulf”, who had just immigrated from England. I consumed every mystery Dorothy Sayers wrote and was hungry for more.  Mulf loaded me up with novels by Dick Francis and took me to the track so that I would have some real experience to back up my reading. We sat in the lounge drinking beer and watching the races on closed circuit TV. I placed some bets and did poorly. But my losses did not tarnish my enthusiasm for mysteries.

I consumed every Britsh mystery that was published and every Rex Stout story, every John D. McDonald, every paperback featuring Mike Hammer, and then I met Giordianus the Finder. There is a huge sub-genre of mysteries set in ancient Rome — all meticulously researched and as educational as they are enchanting. Steven Saylor, John Maddox Roberts, and Lindsey Davis are my favorites. I check daily to see when new novels are coming out and am first in line to buy them.

TV and the movies have done a mixed job at presenting literary detectives. PBS did a smashing job with Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes as did A&E with Nero Wolfe. There was a decent Peter Wimsey series but a truly awful movie of (I don’t even remember which Roman detective) featuring an Australian actor. Brilliant mate, let’s put a shrimp on the barbie and pretend we are in the Forum. I liked Stacv Keach’s Mike Hammer  — he was a great tough guy for the TV format. And let’s not forget Cadfael, the medieval monk, ex-Crusader detective so brilliantly played by Derek Jacobi.

Of course I love Miss Marple and all those poor, highly neurotic women who are victims and perps in P.D. James’ gritty novels. Sue Grafton is a winner. Ngaio Marsh’s works are a sumptuous treat not to be missed.

I like mysteries set in the past — somehow the crimes are less awful (hmmm? are there shades of murder?) and the detectives more clever. I like female detectives especially old biddies like Miss Marple. What a lovely combination of pain in the ass and sharp as a tack. Mystery series that open up new worlds (like ancient Rome or the world of horse racing or Swedish police procedures) are a joy.

This summer I plan to take a lot of new detectives to bed. If you have recommendations for a sleuth or two that somehow I have missed please do let me know. I hope you will try out some of my favorites. Happy reading!