A New Wrinkle

Take a Seat, Please

2012-02-11T16:04:00.000-08:00

My current nomination for most challenging job? Designing a one-size-fits-all-behinds chair. This after a recent visit to a coffee shop where I lost a battle with what appeared to be a perfectly decent looking piece of furniture.

My demands for a comfy chair are simple. I would gladly sacrifice "soft" to be able to lean back and still have my feet touch the floor. As a short person, I can attest that 'tis a rare chair that offers this basic human right.

The chair in question was designed by the same guy who gave us the rack. If I sat back, my legs actually, well, dangled. Since the edge of the seat was rounded like a pizza crust, if I sat forward I felt like a canary balancing on a perch.

I fidgeted like a two year old and contorted like a Cirque acrobat trying to settle in. Surely this chair had it in for my backside.

I was mentally designing my body for next lifetime --- long legs, please --- when all became right in the cafe world. One of the big overstuffed armchairs was vacated and I pounced. Well, maybe pounced isn't the right word since by then I'd lost all feeling in my above mentioned dangling legs.

Perhaps throwing your newspaper at the chair with a cry of "dibs" violates proper coffee shop behavior but my tush and I were desperate. Ahhh, now this is a chair!

Word Origins for $200, Alex

2012-02-05T12:02:00.000-08:00

'Word Origins for $200, Alex' would certainly have put me in the minus column guessing the etymology of "funk".

Based on no information whatsoever, I just assumed "funk" -- as in low, depressed mood -- came from the counter culture of the drug addled sixties. Scored some bad stuff, now am in a funk. One little syllable that simply exudes description.

Well, I was at least a hundred years off the mark.

I'm an avid fiction reader. I like to get lost in a contemporary novel or two, then read a classic just to keep things balanced.

I'm currently reading Flaubert's "Sentimental Education", a morality tale of modern Parisian life in which the unheroic hero tries to fit into upper class society. He earns a few francs, loses a few. He loves her, loves her not.

Not a great story but I'm invested now and won't put it down until I find out what happens to the protagonist.
You may think I digress, but it's because of this novel that my thoughts went to "funk" at all.

During one of these hard times, the hero admits to being in a funk. In the next chapter, his friend asks him what he's going to do about getting out of the funk he's in.

Funk? A novel published in 1869 using words right out of the Haight Ashbury? The ol' synapses were immediately askew. Off to my trusty dictionary I went to find that people walking the cobblestone lanes of Flanders originally coined the word.

I know the Flemish produced some famous painters. Now I can thank them for their contribution to the American vocabulary as well.

Sick to my Stomach

2012-01-28T14:08:00.000-08:00

Heart disease, high blood pressure, diabetes -- all top priority health problems in our country. But if you watch TV or movies it appears that Americans have gigantic gastrointestinal issues as well. Why else is there an abundance of vomiting on the big and small screen?

Who, I ask, finds this in any way funny except perhaps teenage boys? I suppose there's a few million utterly immature men to be added as well, but let's save that for another time. Throw in a few flatulence and boob jokes and you've got a hit.

Who, I ask, creates this stuff? Guys who recently were teenage boys and, again, those utterly immature men? Gee, no one's barfed in this episode yet. Let's write it in.

Look sick, hold your belly, run to the bathroom -- period. Most viewers are quite capable of filling in the blank here, including sound effects, since we've all been there, done that, got the proverbial t-shirt. No need to overdue it with attempted realism.

It's so typically Hollywood. Watch the BBC and you won't see the Brits with their heads in the loo.

BUT WAIT! NOOOOO! I wrote this on Saturday but was made a liar Sunday evening when the BBC actor says he's not feeling well and....well you can take if from there. I stand corrected and horribly upset at that last bastion of class.

Does Hamlet throw up? Does Othello upchuck? Even Ophelia, with all her herbs and flitting about, doesn't get nauseated. Shakespeare wrote something like 36 plays and I don't recall one puking scene among them -- comedies or tragedies.

Of course TV and most movies aren't fine art, but do they have to be so tasteless? The whole trend makes me sick to my stomach.

When the Venue Doesn't Matter....

2012-01-22T12:15:00.000-08:00

Looking for an unusual venue for a wedding reception, anniversary celebration or birthday party? Something that won't max out your bank account, but a place your guests will remember?

Call your local funeral home.

According to an item in the recent "AARP Bulletin", eight percent of funeral homes added party planning to their list of services in 2010. You have to admit they know how to put on an event and you can only hope they can think outside the box. (Sorry, but it just slipped out and, well, I kind of like it so....)

Invitations might send shock waves through the guest list. After all, the Guiding Light Memorial Chapel doesn't exactly send a message of frivolity and an open bar. On the other hand, you could wow them with the flower arrangements.

Two bits of advice:

Don't sign up for the hair and make-up service lest you look like one of their more regular clients.
If this is your wedding, pass on the hearse rental. Talk about starting off on the wrong foot.

And add this to the plus column -- turn the music up as loud as you like and par-tay. The other residents won't complain about the noise.

The Demise of My Comfort Cupcakes

2012-01-13T11:42:00.000-08:00

Ready for a stroll down memory lane?  Okay if I wax nostalgic while we walk?

Think elementary school lunch time. We retrieve our lunch boxes (mine had Dale Evans on it) from the cloak room, sit at our desks, mumble a quick Grace and dig in. In my case there were no surprises: a bologna sandwich on Wonder Bread, a few carrots and, for dessert, a Hostess Cupcake or Twinkie.

Lots of my classmates loved the Twinkie, but I was a Cupcake kid. They tasted good, but I found little room for creativity while eating a Twinkie. The Cupcake on the other hand.....

Here's my routine. Notice I write in the present tense because they're still a part of my life. No, not every day at lunch, but every so often when I'm feeling sad -- or just utterly fed up eating tasteless bran muffins.

Back to the Cupcake. First, flip it so the icing is face down. Eat the cake around the cream filling. Exercise a little restraint and avoid sticking your tongue into the cake for a taste of the cream. After all the cake is eaten, then lick said filling. Finally, savor the chocolate frosting.

I did this as a kid in the lunchroom. I still do it, but in the privacy of my kitchen. I confess my guilty pleasure. Embarrassed? No, more hypocritical since I generally profess to be the tofu queen.

Granted, the Cupcakes don't taste quite the same, but that doesn't make me enjoy them any less. Why spoil it all by reading the ingredient and nutrition information on the package.  I'm aware that that creamy inside I so love has never seen the inside of a dairy, but let's not burst all my bubbles, okay?

The sad news is that the company that produces all these childhood foods has filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection. You'd think in a country that suffers from an obesity epidemic, business would be booming, but apparently consumers are buying more whole grain breads and healthier desserts.

If they're going to stop making my beloved Cupcakes, I should stock up.  Their shelf life is probably longer than mine.

-----
By the way, I know the product names are trademarked but, techie that I am, I don't know how to make that little sign.

And the Winner Is.....

2012-01-08T12:12:00.000-08:00

Here we are, less than two weeks into the new year and my brain is already saturated by presidential campaign news. I use the word hesitantly since most of what we hear is conjecture, trivia and predictions by the pundits who enjoy the feeding frenzy that an election provides.

Imagine being a citizen of Iowa, generally a quiet, peaceful state. Your daily routine consists of a relaxing breakfast at the local diner before going to work. Suddenly you're surrounded by media sticking microphones in your face while you're trying to pour the maple syrup. Who will you vote for? What do you think about...? Do you believe candidate so and so can win? If it's not the media, it's the candidates themselves vying for attention. By now your pancakes are cold.

Thankfully these people are now in New Hampshire interrupting someone else's breakfast.

Unfortunately, it doesn't matter what state is hosting. The mud slinging, name calling and finger pointing don't change. The holier than thou attitudes and pontificating continue. These guys ought to empty their pockets of stones, since they all live in glass mansions.

One candidate wins and becomes the media darling. Next week, he loses and becomes an also-ran, overtaken by the latest flavor of the month.

This entire process is far too drawn out and way too expensive. I propose we change the system and adopt the "American Idol" model. Each week there's a topic -- foreign affairs, the economy, the environment. Each week candidates give a brief presentation on said topic. Each week viewers vote for their favorite. Contestants are ranked weekly and the final vote determines who will face off in the general election.

Think about it. Six weeks of interactive TV or six months slogging through primaries. Show of hands?

It's Not a Resolution

2011-12-31T13:48:00.000-08:00

It being the new year, I am seriously thinking about losing weight in the coming months. Note please that this does not fall into the "resolution" category. You see, if I don't classify it as a resolution, then when I devour an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's mid-February I won't feel like a total failure. Yes, I know it's a matter of semantics but creative interpretation is a talent of which I can boast so indulge me, won't you?

As part of my research I surfed the various sites of the more popular weight loss programs. They all feature a previously overweight celebrity spokesperson who successfully slimmed down counting points, eating prepared meals or dancing the flab away in front of millions of viewers each week. They look fantastic so kudos to them all for sticking with it.

The thing I found disturbing, however, was an ad on at least one of the sites. The ad was for anti-depressants. Since Madison Avenue is known for target marketing, one can assume a high incidence of overweight people in need of a mood enhancing drug.

Finally the stereotype of the jolly fat person is history. Let's hear it for the real world!

Believe me, I'm not pointing an accusatory finger since I spent my first year in college popping diet pills. I wasn't depressed. Just obsessed with not gaining that "freshman fifteen". Perhaps it came from shopping for clothes in the Chubby Kids Department -- we weren't big on euphemisms in the '50s -- or from one of the nuns sending a note home suggesting my mom put me on a diet.

Thankfully we're much more sensitive to weight issues now. There are plus sizes for women and an entire shop for men who are big and tall. We use words like "Reubenesque", "Queen Size" and "zaftig" -- Yiddish for having a full, shapely figure. How can you not love that word?

For the longest time I called my extra poundage baby fat, but since it's now old enough to receive Medicare I think it's time to christen it something more accurate.

Nothing Common About a Cold

2011-12-25T13:27:00.000-08:00

Whatever associations you have with winter -- snowmen, hot cocoa, cozy fireplace -- you can't finish your list without adding "the common cold". Tis the season to be jolly but tis also the season to sneeze your blithering brains out and cough like you're rehearsing the final tragic consumption scene from "Camille".

Tis also the time to dust off that rhetorical question "if they can put a man on the moon why can't they find a cure for the common cold?"

Having just emerged from the throes of the above mentioned affliction, I would like to know why indeed can't they discover such a cure? Imagine the kudos that researcher would receive. Nominations for a Nobel Prize, a Pulitzer, Queen of the May -- whatever's available just to show our gratitude. Anyone who's ever had a cold -- you know who you are -- would jump on the accolades bandwagon. Statues erected. Holidays assigned. Elementary schools named. Deli sandwiches added to menus.

Exaggeration you say. I think not. Remember the last time you had a cold. Now tell me if you wouldn't have liquidated your entire portfolio of tech stocks in exchange for a pill guaranteed to unclog your sinuses.

A cold isn't life threatening and it's usually history in three to seven days, but those days are a glimpse into Dante's hellish circles. I fought my recent bout with the Four Ts -- tissues, tea, toast and tomato soup. Yes, I know chicken soup is the universal cure-all, but I happen to prefer tomato -- it's great for dunking the toast.

I'm feeling much better now, thanks for asking. Using hand sanitizer religiously. Taking my vitamins. Waiting for this year's exotic flu strain to hit.

What?

2011-12-03T19:20:00.000-08:00

Let me preface the forthcoming mini-rant by proudly admitting that I love language. It's constantly changing and updating itself. Old words fall out of use to make way for the new. Slang rapidly saturates the vernacular. Unfortunately, by the time we of the elder demographic incorporate it into our vocabulary the words are outdated --- thus generating an instant eye roll from young Twihards and those suffering from Biebermania. I love the inflections, the intonation, the rhythm of English. And certain words like pizazz and oomph just tickle my tongue. I'm an avid reader and often pause to admire a well-written sentence. While I don't know the exact number, my vocabulary is probably higher than average.

Enough already. You got it. So......

Why then did I not understand one freakin' word the twenty-something techie said? I might as well have been in a computer store in downtown Minsk.  I prayed for subtitles to suddenly appear on his chest. Of course they'd have been impossible to read what with my glazed over eyes. This couldn't be my beloved English, although I did hear some recognizable words. It's just that they were buried in sentences about gigabytes and HTMLs.

There's never a glossary around when you need one.

Of course I assumed the pretense of comprehension, nodding my head and throwing in a few, what I assumed to be well-placed, "I sees".  To add to this charade, I jotted down a word or two so I could "follow-up".

One more lie and I was sure my nose would jut out like Pinocchio. I thanked the young man -- just being polite, not sincere -- and left the store in need of immediate resuscitation.

Forget 911. Call the nearest coffee shop and order me a double grande dose of caffeine -- stat.

Calling the Holiday Fashion Police

2011-11-26T15:40:00.000-08:00

There's a traditional holiday song with a line something like "it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas". It goes on about the snow, decorations and general good cheer of the season.

It doesn't, however, include any reference to the god awful sweaters people wear this time of year. You know the ones I mean --- reindeer leaping over chimneys, dancing gingerbread men, multi-colored tree ornaments and snowflakes humongous enough to ground a flight at JFK.

Where are the fashion police when you need them? How is it that normally chic people lose all sense of style when it comes to these folk art sweaters? My theory is that granny or auntie or someone dear to them knit the garment and gave it as a gift so it's more of an obligation than a fashion choice. I could be way off the mark here, but that's all I've got. I just can't believe any sighted person would actually buy one of these sweaters --- even on black Friday --- at midnight.

First of all, it has a short shelf life. You can't be wearing leaping reindeer or tinsel much into January. When you take down the tree, take off the sweater. Second, make sure the person who knit it for you sees you wearing it. Tell them how toasty it is, how much you love it -- then pack it away and call the L.L. Bean emergency hot line to order a real sweater.

I've probably offended all of you who really do wear these sweaters. Maybe I'm sour grapes since I was never given a hand made Christmas sweater. You see my granny and aunties never mastered knitting beyond a certain stitch. But if you're interested, I can tell you about my many holiday scarves.

Is This Really Necessary?

2011-11-20T12:19:00.000-08:00

Something new to add to my "Is This Really Necessary?" list .... reserved seating in the movie theater. I'm not talking about advanced ticket buying which is actually a convenience. I'm talking about reserving a seat, as though you were going to Carnegie Hall. This, however, is a multiplex where seating, typically, is a free for all, much like flying Southwest.

Perhaps this is a good idea on a crowded weekend evening for a blockbuster film, but is it really necessary for a mid-week matinee?

Let me tell you about my recent experience. There was no ticket line since it was the aforementioned mid-week matinee. I told the person which movie I wanted to see but before taking my money and printing a ticket, he asked me where I would like to sit. Mentally I responded with a snippy "preferably in a chair, you idiot" but in my personal quest to be less sarcastic and more polite I kept it to a simple "excuse me?"

He explained the reserved seating procedure and turned the computer screen around so I could choose a section and row. Here we are mid-week, midday. Imagine my surprise when I had my choice of any seat in the house.

I pointed to the general area where I'd like to sit but the young man insisted, with a smile right out of a training manual, that I be specific. I pointed. He printed. Off I went to search for my assigned seat in a completely empty theater.

Did I sit in my assigned seat when there were hundreds to choose from? I most certainly did not. I seized the opportunity to defy the system --- and waited anxiously for the voice of authority to tell me to move.

The Derailed Train of Thought

2011-11-12T14:22:00.000-08:00

To be honest, I don't know that I'd have dinner with any of the Republican presidential candidates. While they might be decent people, politically they're just not all that exciting.

Think about it. These candidates have stated their position during several debates, fund raised and given speeches around the country. Yet what is the only thing people are talking about this week? Governor Perry's brain freeze.

It even beat out our knowing where in the world Matt Lauer was.

How about a little empathy, people? Granted we've probably never lost it on national television in front of millions of people, but we've all been there. Starting confidently down a train of thought when suddenly ye ol' mental faculties plummet like Wiley Coyote and his Acme anvil.

Personally, I don't think one gaffe bars anyone from the presidency but I'd want to know if this condition is chronic. I'd worry about my president sitting down with the head of North Korea trying to hammer out a nuclear agreement and ending up with a kimchee recipe instead.

Holiday Shopping -- It's Baaack

2011-11-05T14:04:00.000-07:00

Most of us don't like TV commercials. That's hardly breaking news. But the annoyance meter soars when said commercials promote Christmas shopping the day after Halloween. We're still picking candy corn out of our teeth when we're made to shift gears and consider a suitable gift for the dog walker and Aunt Esther.

Thanks for reminding me, but let me recover from this Trick or Treat sugar coma before compiling a shopping list.

Not that long ago, holiday shopping began with gusto the day after Thanksgiving and so did the commercials. That's plenty of time to work yourself into a retail frenzy.

As annoying as it is, this early kick-off is probably to the consumers advantage since it sparks retailers to offer good deals over a longer period. Many shops are promoting November and pre-Thanksgiving sales but I'm skeptical.

If it was actually a pre-Thanksgiving sale the ads would show the family around the dinner table drumstick in hand, a cornucopia centerpiece for effect. What do you see? A fully decorated tree, twinkle lights and people wearing Santa hats.

Retailers are desperate to get consumers to fork over some cash, but chill for just a few more weeks. Let me at least enjoy the turkey leftovers.

Happy B-Day to Baby 7 Billion

2011-10-30T13:29:00.000-07:00

Don't know exactly where. Don't know exactly when. But a United Nations agency predicts October 31st is when the 7 billionth person will be born on this mud ball we inhabit. I'd better get more Halloween candy.

Seven billion people. No wonder my elbows have less room. Personally, I don't take up much space and maintain a small environmental footprint. I live in a studio apartment, ride public transportation, recycle, compost and changed all my light bulbs to the spirally kind -- not great for reading but they last longer than some of my relationships.

What will the world will be like when this 7 billionth baby is old enough to ask questions? Here's hoping that we'll be using the past tense when telling stories about hunger and wars.

I don't expect a round of Koombayah, but a little international togetherness could be fun.

What if all 7 billion of us burped simultaneously? Could you really call it a Guinness World Record since we are the world? Something to ponder while I wait in the supermarket line with what seems like 6 billion of my fellow humans.

Oxymoron of the Year? Amish Gangs!

2011-10-22T18:26:00.000-07:00

This could be the perfect day to watch out for airborne pigs or shiver because hell has indeed frozen over.

Why, you ask, are you any more likely today to see that rare flying porcine or feel the temps plummet in Hades? Because the Amish have gangs, that's why!

Amish gangs. Add that to your list of oxymorons.

Personally I've never met an Amish person. Oprah visited a family once and I've seen the movie "Witness". These hardly make me an Amish expert, but I'm certain they're a peaceful lot.

According to news reports, groups of young men are attacking elders by cutting their beards and hair. Not exactly Sharks and Jets material, but a serious act of disrespect for the Amish.

So do they really call themselves gangs or has the media dubbed them that, because my stereotype is a guy loaded with bling wearing a muscle shirt to show off his tats.

I can't imagine an Amish teen with a horse and buggy inked on his forearm.

But look --- there goes that pig again!

Hash & Re-hash -- The New TV Season

2011-10-16T13:38:00.000-07:00

Lawyers, doctors, detectives.

If we were on Jeopardy, the question might be "What are the only professions TV shows portray?" Well, only might be a stretch but not by much.

These lawyers, doctors and detectives are all fashion mag perfect and qualify for any number of "most beautiful people" lists. There's sexual tension galore and racy story lines that make the bodice ripping novels look like kid lit.

A few years ago I was asked to testify against a guy who decided to include some of my belongings in his thieving spree. That was the first time I'd been in a courtroom and I fully expected something comparable to what I'd seen on TV. Dynamic, well -spoken attorneys dressed in Brooks Brothers suits defending their clients from injustice. Gritty, witty, curmudgeonly judges bantering with counsel. Drama from the opening gavel, right?

On the contrary! The experience still ranks high on my snooze scale. Lots of paper shuffling, waiting for people to show up (my guy never did) and attorney posturing.

Most lawyer, doctor and detective shows use cookie cutter characters and plots tweaked a tad so as not be recognized from last season or from a competing show. Hash and re-hash -- the new motto for this year's TV season.

Let's Hear it for Columbus

2011-10-09T15:20:00.000-07:00

Columbus Day is one of those kinda sorta American holidays. Some of us have to work. Some of us don't. There are no greeting cards to celebrate the day, no traditional foods or activities. In 1937, the president made it an official holiday but not everyone agrees. Hawaii celebrates it as Discoverer's Day, South Dakota and Oklahoma changed the name to Native American Day. And in 1992, Berkeley, California dubbed it Indigenous People's Day.

How did it ever get to be a holiday in the first place? My guess is one ultra influential Italian-American lobby that wouldn't stop til they got their October day.

Think about it. Columbus never set foot on American soil. While he might have dipped a tootsie or two in the Atlantic, the water was Bahamian, not Floridian. Yes, he came close but since when does close get you an entire holiday?

In elementary school we drew countless pictures of the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria. The significance of October 12th, 1492 was drilled into our malleable little heads. If the nun said it, it was gospel. Free thinking and question asking was frowned upon in my Catholic school.

Imagine -- if we were misled about Chris' voyage, what other false or misinformation is stored in our mental hard drives? More importantly, how can we delete it?

A Little Dab'll Do Ya

2011-10-02T13:42:00.000-07:00

Smoking is forbidden in public places. Kid's meals at fast food restaurants are banned in an effort to combat childhood obesity.  We no longer talk on the phone while driving. We wear seat belts, helmets and pads -- just in case.

When we're serious about a cause we tackle it head on until we get what we want.

The next issue?  Perfume -- the overuse thereof. Now I'm not against perfume in general but I always thought the idea was to dab it -- and most women know just where the dabs should go for full effect (wink, wink). What I am opposed to is excess -- the overwhelming smell that makes you think the wearer either lost control of the atomizer or accidentally spilled the bottle on their person.

Yours might be a lovely fragrance, but know when too much is too much.  Too much reminds you of a maiden aunt who, on family holidays, held you to her ample bosom until you nearly suffocated. Hers was a mixture of perfume, hairspray, bath powder and make-up -- the perfect storm that temporarily shut down all olfactory functions.  Too much reminds you of the stereotypical cheap hooker -- never having been around a cheap hooker or even an expensive one, I'll have to trust the stereotype.

Back in the day, perfume counter demonstrators in department stores randomly sprayed customers. Now they have to ask first.  That's a start, and we'll just take it one spritz at a time.

Centenarians by the Hundreds

2011-09-24T20:48:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the outrageously expensive miracles of modern medicine, our average life expectancy is increasing. Not surprisingly, so is the number of centenarians. But is it natural for humans to live that long?

Think of a '57 Chevy. You can drive that baby for decades but at some point the odometer triumphs, things fall apart and you become a regular Car Talk caller.

Isn't it similar with our bodies? I'm a '46 model and frankly, I need more than an oil change to keep me breezing down the turnpike of life. Luckily, there's a multitude of replacement parts available. New hips. New knees. New face. Mr. Potato Head come to life.

A recent article in the New York Times said that people over 65 are a prime market for plastic surgery. The article said that in 2010, approximately 84,685 procedures were done on the geezer demographic. Apparently a professional can lift just about any body part the patient asks for.

Me? Breast lift, please. And while I'm under, check the jowls. I long ago waved the white flag at that enemy called gravity but maybe it's not too late to sneak up on it with a bit of a nip/tuck.

What brought this on? I was speaking with a man today who claimed to be 90. Great posture. Thick white hair. And his face? My linen shirts have more wrinkles. Boy, would I like a dip in that gene pool.

My Smart Phone Isn't

2011-09-17T16:02:00.000-07:00

I wouldn't answer to Luddite, but I'm not a consumer of all the latest gadgets, apps and adult toys either. Let me clarify "toys". I refer to the technical kind, not those for the bedroom, but then what would a former Catholic school girl know about those anyway.

While most people now have smart phones, mine is only of average intelligence. While some smart phones are artificially intelligent enough to attend Harvard, mine would do well at a community college. My phone would never be asked to hang out with the cool kids. It seriously lacks the necessary bells and whistles to be classified as smart.

Don't get me wrong. I think cell phones are right up there in the "greatest thing since sliced bread" category. Sure beats hunting for a pay phone like we did back in the day. Can you even find a phone booth anymore? Prediction: One will turn up on Antiques Roadshow ten years from now and it'll be worth an absolute fortune.

Keep it simple is my mantra. I want my phone to display all the little bars, connect after I enter a number, take a photo and let me send a text or two. I don't expect it to do my laundry and melt s'mores -- although both might be apps I'd buy into.

Tea -- The Drink of the Civilized

2011-09-10T13:56:00.000-07:00

If I ever become an ex-pat, I probably would survive well in England what with my being a tea lover. I'm not quite as fanatic as they are, meaning I don't believe it to be liquid manna with heavenly properties. But I do enjoy a cup of the herbal brew.

Watch British movies or Masterpiece on PBS and you know the Brits solve what ails them by putting the kettle on. Broke up with the louse? Drown your sorrows in a cup of tea. Bad news from the bathroom scale? Tea has no calories so drink up. Got a haircut from a visually impaired stylist? Tea will make it grow back faster.

Tea is the Brits answer to Prozac. Tea -- the elixir that takes the edge off of life. Throw a warm scone into the mix and life is good again.

Last week I was one with the Brits. After an unusually frantic day all I wanted was to relax with, yes, a cup of tea. I brewed a pot of honey chamomile -- my favorite. After all, it is the tea Peter Rabbit's mother made after his episode in Mr. MacGregor's garden. I poured it into my favorite cup -- also part of the ritual. Tea in a styrofoam container or paper cup is utterly barbaric. It's right up there with champagne in a Flintstone jelly glass.

I took one sip, then another. Cross my heart, I swear I heard an "aaahhhhh". Undoubtedly a chorus of stressed out cells thankful for a freakin' break.

Never again will I pooh-pooh the Brits and their miracle brew. Now I get it.

School Daze

2011-09-04T12:57:00.000-07:00

Now that summer is over, I see parents walking their kids to school in the morning. To be more accurate, it's usually the kid scurrying behind the parent trying to keep up. The parents look harried. The kids look like they're heading to their doom.

Now I was one of those weird kids who loved school -- except for math class which I had no interest in and therefore no understanding of or is it the reverse.   I never actually skipped to school wearing a broad "yippee, I'm going to spend six hours with the nuns" grin, but I didn't look as though my hamster just died either.

Is it because these kids are going to public school? I'd probably not have a rosy outlook either if I was subjected to a backpack search and metal detector scan even though I'm only in the third grade.  Perhaps they're wondering what mystery meat will be served in the cafeteria  and why the giant sixth grade bully wants their portion too.

Maybe they're worried the teacher won't believe that the dog really did eat their homework or anxious that an asteroid will land in the classroom or nervous that they'll be the last kid picked for volleyball during gym.

Now that I think about it, these kids have good reason to be grim. And this is without knowing that the quality of their education is far from A+.

All we had to worry about in elementary school was the Red Menace.  Atomic bombs. Our innocent classmates kidnapped, brainwashed and adopted by a Russian family.   Yes, things were simpler then.

Bibliotherapy -- Read Your Troubles Away

2011-08-28T10:35:00.000-07:00

My philosophy of life can be summed up like so: Some days you're the pigeon and some days you're the statue.

It's those "statue" days when we need to wind down, decompress, chill out, tune out -- fill in additional synonyms here. Everyone has their own way of achieving that goal: yoga, meditation, snacking, hot baths, watching a mindless TV program (is that redundant?).

For me there's nothing like a little bibliotherapy. Give me a well-written book and I'll forget about the blasted pigeons before the first chapter ends. Even a poorly-written one can do the trick since it triggers my inner critic and allows me to mentally trash the moron who wrote it. There's undoubtedly some psychological term for this transference of anger but let's not get too Dr. Phil here.

Top of the list? Hands down, any chapter in which Elizabeth Bennett is vexed by Mr. Darcy. Ahh, the cure for even the worst caca day.

It doesn't matter whether you use your finger to turn the page or touch the screen on your e-reader, reading is your ticket out of what ails you. Pleasant journey.

Lefties -- Penmanship Not Politics

2011-08-20T15:52:00.000-07:00

August 13 marked the 19th Annual Left Handers Day Celebration.

What's that? You missed it? Figures. We lefties -- I'm talking penmanship here, not politics -- are used to being forgotten. After all, only 13% of us belong to this elite group and we long ago conceded that this is a right-handed world.

Surely you've watched a leftie attempt to cut with a scissors. Maybe even laughed at what you saw. No arguing that it is indeed awkward. That innocent little tool has contributed to the plight of we lefties since pre-school. Everyone's Valentine showed neat, rounded edges -- yes, even with those ridiculous blunted scissors. Mine looked like the class gerbil gnawed his way around the outside. Scissors are definitely made for right-handers.

Personally, I'm ladle-phobic. I'd feel more comfortable in a tutu en pointe with the Bolshoi than scooping liquid out of a soup tureen. I have no proof that the ladle favors the right-handed majority, but it saps what little dexterity I have remaining using either hand. I've offered guests my first born child if only they'd fill my punch glass.

Remember elementary school desks? Obviously designed by a right-hander. The desktops were shaped similar to an artist's palette but they were always attached to the right side of the desk. In order to apply pen to paper, we lefties were forced to contort our little bodies, thus making future chiropractic patients of us all.

As payback for sticking us with the root word "sinistra" in Latin and "gauche" in French, we were compelled to excel and become creative geniuses like Leonardo or over-achievers like President Obama -- both of whom would be installed in the Left Handers Hall of Fame if anyone should decide to establish one. The left bank of Paris would be an excellent site.

C-SPAN - The Site for Congressional Drama

2011-08-13T16:18:00.000-07:00

All right America. Breathe in...2-3-4...breathe out...2-3-4. Again. Breathe in...2-3-4...breathe out...2-3-4. Again......

Feel more relaxed now? Less of an angry villager, torches ablaze? Good.

Now I know we've been through an ordeal and whether you agree that the opposition are Hobbits or not (frankly, I think it's a slur on the Hobbits) the ugliness is over at least til after Labor Day. Then the bickering will resume but no one will be wearing white.

They all need a massive time-out. Some of them a massive time out of office.

What's with all the drama? Monday morning: one party steps up to the microphones to say their idea is best and they won't budge. Hold that thought, because momentarily the other party does exactly the same. Tuesday morning: one party steps up the microphones to say their idea is best and they won't budge. It's like "Groundhog Day" without the levity. Fans of the soaps are lamenting their cancellation. Cheer up. All the drama has moved to C-SPAN.

Whose idea was the debt ceiling countdown clock? It felt like a game show prop. I sat waiting for a senator to buy a vowel.

Why do we vote for these morons? What do they actually do on a daily basis? Could you hem and haw, use such histrionics and be that indecisive on your job? I venture to answer for you a resounding "no".

Thank goodness for August. Things are quieter, more relaxed. It'll give me time to read up on this blasted credit downgrade and to decide for myself whether it actually does signal the end of the world as we know it.

Brunch, Lunch -- Let's Eat

2011-08-06T14:23:00.000-07:00

I am invited to brunch Sunday at noon. There's no question in my mind that this is indeed brunch because of the arranged time. However, another guest insists that it's lunch because of the arranged time. Before we debate this any further, let's check with the authority.

According to Webster brunch is "the late first meal of the day that takes the place of both breakfast and lunch". The word, as we all know, is taken from the first letters of breakfast and the last letters of lunch. Personally, I love these coined combination words when they really are descriptive and fill a lexical gap. Smog and frenemy are two others I can think of offhand. The love dissipates though when the tabloids and entertainment TV use them to refer to the latest hot celebrity couple. If you've never heard of Brangelina you must have been residing in another galaxy.

Back to brunch. It does seem that brunch is restricted to a meal only on weekends, especially Sunday. During the work week we have lunch noonish. No one ever tells their colleagues they're off to brunch. And if we go out around eleven, we say it's an early lunch. Most offices have a lunch hour from 12 to 1 -- a mere sixty minutes to scarf down a deli sandwich, pick up a birthday card and drop off the dry cleaning.

Thus it would appear that brunch has been relegated to the more relaxing Sundays when we can sip a mimosa and calmly wait for the chef to Benedict the eggs and French the toast.

Meanwhile, I am indeed going to brunch on Sunday and I do hope the other guest comes for lunch. What we call it isn't important. Let's eat!

Hooked on a Feeling

2011-07-30T13:21:00.000-07:00

Don't you think we've become a tad too paranoid? I ask because I've seen commercials on TV recently promoting background checks before dating someone.

Whatever happened to listening to your gut and female intuition?   I like to think it was Cleopatra's intuition that had her slipping into that Egyptian cotton negligee for Marc Antony. Conqueror or not, she just knew a hot, hunky Roman when she saw one.  I somehow doubt that she asked the high priests to comb pages of parchment for background info before making her move.

Lest we forget the husband of all husbands -- Henry VIII.  Perhaps it's more difficult to listen to your gut when you're being pursued by royalty. But let's face it, those women could have benefited from a quick Google search. Don't know that I'd date someone -- royalty or not -- with a beheading in his profile.

My other problem with background checks is that they'll put a dent in our "worst date ever" stories. Yes, you'll know he's wanted in Ohio for a felony -- definitely red flag material. But you'll never have a story to tell the girls about his quest for a competitive eating championship, his skinhead politics and his obsession with tapioca.

I refuse to concede that good old home-grown intuition has been trumped by technology.    When that little voice tells me this guy is a wacko, I listen. Do I really need to confirm that with Interpol?

I've Hair On My Chinny Chin Chin

2011-07-23T19:42:00.000-07:00

One of the positive things about ageing -- and I am keeping a list -- is that my body hair has stopped growing. I no longer shave my legs or underarms and I'm in no danger of being mistaken for any type of simian.

One of the negative things about ageing -- and I am keeping a list -- is that that same body hair that was once growing on my legs and underarms has found a new home on my chin.

I pluck it, I shave it and it just keeps coming back like some follicle possessed by a boomerang. Remember the story of the three little pigs? The wolf bangs on the door to be let in and the pigs defy him by taunting "not by the hair on my chinny chin chin". As a kid I thought it was just a clever rhyme. I am no longer laughing.

Think of how illustrators and cartoonists portray crones, hags and wicked witches. Of course there's the obligatory warts and perhaps a greenish skin tone. But what else do they have in common? Yes, chin hair. A lovely image, is it not?

It's not like I'm sporting a goatee -- now that would have me in the electrologist's chair in a New York minute. Much like the teenager with a zit on prom night, I feel like all of mankind sees it --- and, left unplucked -- will soon have its own address on a social networking site.

Earworms For Your Listening Pleasure?

2011-07-17T15:15:00.000-07:00

Note: I almost didn't write this entry for fear of experiencing that of which I write, but I'm going for it anyway and here's hoping.

It's a universal experience. It knows no economic or social barriers. No geographic boundaries. The pan flute players in the Andes experience the same effect as a Montana cowboy. It's that pesky melody that sticks in your head for what seems like an endless period of time. It's the earworm.

Did you know that mind numbing ditty had a name? I've not researched this topic so I can't vouch for the scientific credibility of the name -- sounds a tad Urban Dictionary -- but it certainly is descriptive, even borderline yucky.

Stay with me here. This topic, like a yawn, is highly suggestive and contagious. I know you're thinking of personal earworm incidents this very minute, but don't go there or you'll fall down the rabbit hole.

Earworms that enter our head from commercials are the worst. I don't mind spinning a Gershwin classic or maybe something from the Beatles songbook in my mental jukebox, but I really hate being sucked in by Madison Avenue jingles promoting booze and burgers.

And why can we both listen to the same music and it becomes an earworm for you and not me? Is it like the tornadoes that destroy one house on the block and others remain intact? Is it yet another totally random thing in life -- don't know how many more of those I can take -- or just freakin' luck.

The life cycle of an earworm varies from a few hours to the insanity creating few days. No cure is known for this malady but if some researcher comes up with one, he should be nominated for a Nobel Prize.

Competitive Eating -- for Charity

2011-07-09T16:43:00.000-07:00

A European visitor asked how we celebrate Independence Day. My answer included barbecues, picnics, beach-going and fireworks. My answer did not include the annual hot dog eating competition in New York.

Some might think competitive eating fun -- a sport even. I personally find it a humongous gross out. The world already thinks Americans are fat and wasteful. What better way to prove their point than by watching people cram hot dogs down their throats while the clock counts down. For this the winner gets paid a few thou.

It's all American hot dogs on the 4th, but there are similar contests throughout the year -- same idea, different main course. The current champion earned six-figures last year. He presumably spends some of the prize money on antacid.

Competitive eating lionizes gluttony -- and violates all the table manners mom taught us. But there may be a way to make it less repulsive. Ready for a bright idea? Insert drum roll here.

There are so many people out of work and hungry. Why not make competitive eating a fund raiser? We walk for breast cancer, Alzheimer's and any number of diseases. Why not eat for food banks, soup kitchens and shelters?

I might actually wear the t-shirt and cheer on a contestant if it was for a good cause. Don't know if I could actually watch the action though. Charity or no charity, that part is still disgusting.

The Mother of All Mothers-in-Law

2011-07-03T13:52:00.000-07:00

If you are or have ever been married, you know the power of the mother-in-law. You are now in-charge of her baby and, in her mind, there's no possible way you are capable of doing a grand a job as she did. It doesn't matter if you've won the Nobel Prize, achieved sainthood or discovered a cure for cancer.

The first time my mother-in-law came to visit, I cleaned as though Jesus, Mary and Joseph were travelling with her. I planned meals and tested so many recipes I made Martha Stewart look like a slacker. I became obsessed with locating dust bunnies and their subsequent obliteration. I was sure she was intent on white-gloving my house and I desperately wanted to pass inspection. Was it my mother-in-law coming or General Eisenhower?

But what happens if your mother-in-law was a fashion icon, internationally beloved, who died tragically at a young age? The media will remind you of her every twelve seconds. They will show a myriad of photos of her and make endless comparisons -- how you have a similar sense of style, how affable you are, how you put one foot in front of the other and on and on until it borders on creepy and slightly Oedipal. What with the intense media coverage, I'm surprised no one brought in Dr. Phil to discuss whether or not William was marrying a ringer for his mom. Poor taste? Probably.

Kate, the new duchess of somewhere, is on the cover of a news weekly out and about with a computer-aged Diana at 50. I feel for Kate. Whether digitally enhanced or hundreds of hours of archival footage, the newlywed has the mother of all mother-in-law issues -- living in the grandest of royal shadows.

One Can Only Dream of Jeannie

2011-06-26T17:39:00.000-07:00

Remember the "I Dream of Jeannie" series from the '60s? Barbara Eden in her harem outfit, wielding a killer head nod, causing all kinds of innocent mischief for her master. Did you know that network censors made her cover her belly button? Ah, the x-rated bare navel -- serious titillation for teenage boys, and perhaps their fathers as well, in the early part of that repressed decade.

Fast forward some forty-plus years. If it's titillation you're looking for, turn on just about any channel. The recent Miss USA pageant featured belly button-exposed contestants in itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny yellow polka dot bikinis (sorry, I know that song's going to run through your head, but it so fit my sentence) skimpy enough for the beaches of Brazil.

TV has gone from banning belly buttons to condoning cleavage -- watch for the obligatory lean-over-a-colleagues-laptop scene in just about all cop, legal and medical dramas. After all, a sexy coroner has to have something under that oversized lab coat to tempt the docs.

There's simply no use for the "I see London, I see France...." rhyme we chanted as kids. Seeing someone's underpants? That's so yesterday. Chances are they're not wearing any.

Being a network censor back in the day was undoubtedly a stressful job. After all, they had to protect us from --- well I'm not sure what exactly. Today we're either all grown up or beyond redemption. My money's on the latter.

The Big Birthday Done Come and Gone

2011-06-19T11:46:00.000-07:00

I've been whining and wailing about it for weeks, dreading it for days. Now it's happened. I turned sixty-freakin'-five yesterday.

Remember the Y2K scare? I poo-pooed it overall, but woke up January 1 with trepidation only to find the world still functioning. Well, it was kind of a repeat of that this morning -- nothing had changed. No new wrinkles, no new bone creakage, no new aches or pains -- of course all of the old ones were still there. Guess that would border on the miracle category, but then I do like to set the bar pretty high.

I often walk the labyrinth hoping for enlightenment on some level. No real aha moment this time, but one of those "it's all in the attitude" realizations. I'm much calmer today. It's either a new level of spiritual awareness or a sugar coma hangover from yesterday. That was one yummy birthday cannolli!

Yes, I'm a year older but buried somewhere in there is a year wiser as well. A multitude of insights to be shared. Stay tuned.

Medicare, Here I Come!

2011-06-12T14:07:00.000-07:00

I passed a milestone this week. I used my Medicare card for the very first time.

I was a tad reluctant to hand it over to the pharmacy clerk. In my mind it means I'm teetering on the threshold of geezer hood -- a mere six days til I'm officially 65 -- and when you flash that little red, white and blue card everyone knows it. I feel like I'm toting a freakin' American flag. Could they not have chosen more muted colors? Perhaps something in a shade of grey -- now that's symbolic.

Yes, I know I worked my entire adult life to "earn" the card but it feels akin to Hester Pryne sporting that capital "A" on her chest. Make mine an "O" for old or an "S" for senior or an "E" for elder -- whatever bit of alphabet works. Just no "TA" for Third-Ager as suggested in a recent article -- a term that makes me want to down a Costco size bottle of Rolaids.

Frankly, I think we'll always be Boomers even when we're pushing walkers and wearing adult diapers. We're a demographic within a demographic and we'll be studied to death as we age. Actually I'm feeling more like a pioneer, what with being in the first wave and all. I'll keep you posted on my journey.

Politicians Behaving Badly -- Again

2011-06-04T13:32:00.000-07:00

Yet another news story -- ad nausea -- this week about a politician behaving badly. Once the obvious jokes die down, he can line up behind our former president, several former governors, a former presidential candidate and, don't forget, the former House speaker who was motivated out of patriotism.

These scandals are becoming so common there should be a nationally televised competition for Cad of the Year. Contestants earn points for the event itself. Originality counts. Remember, the intern, the housekeeper, the high-priced call girl and the South American mistress have already been done so get creative. Score points for the press conference that most humiliates the suffering wife. Additional points for best denial. Bonus points if tears -- yours -- are shed.

Contestants show their talent for lying, covering up and back-pedaling.

Who would judge the pageant? Women every where a la American Idol.

Who would sponsor such a pageant? I'm thinkin' Viagra -- or does that send the wrong message?

White Teeth -- Madison Avenue Strikes Again

2011-05-30T14:49:00.000-07:00

Beauty is, as the adage goes, in the eye of the beholder. Blond, brunette, milky skin, freckles, chipmunk cheeks, willowy -- it's easy to find someone who agrees these traits are either attractive or not so much. And, they provide a pretty clear description. I could probably find someone at the airport given this basic information.

You rarely hear anything about dental status added to the list. So how did Americans become obsessed with white teeth? Check out any pharmacy and you'll go dizzy over the choices in teeth whiteners. TV commercials abound with women fretting that they don't have time to whiten before a big date.

Chalk it up as yet another project of Madison Avenue trying to define how we ought to look -- right up there with having firm, tight skin and nary a strand of grey.

A European once told me he could always spot an American. I thought he'd comment on our volume or the socks with sandals get-up -- both understandable targets. But he surprised me by saying we all have such white teeth.

Can you become obsessed with whitening? Addicted even? No one wants to look like they've spent months with Captain Jack Sparrow gnawing on bugs and berries, but there's no need to blind someone either. To paraphrase an old joke, you really want to help the over-whitener, but you'd miss using them as a night light.

End of Days -- Hooey or Holy?

2011-05-21T13:38:00.000-07:00

In a few hours life as we know it could be over -- if you believe that today the rapture begins. Logically I think it's a load of hooey but I also feel a scintilla of emotion that keeps asking whether it's possible.

On a purely superficial level I'm going to be ticked off -- I just had my hair done. It's kind of like washing your car right before it rains. Of course if it really is the end, I'm going out looking utterly fabulous.

I've hardly lived a sin-free life but I've been a fairly good person. Am I rapture material? Questionable. I don't think I was given the holy gene. Twelve years of Catholic school, including daily Mass and family rosaries after dinner didn't make a spiritual dent. While high school friends joined the convent, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror with a towel framing my face proving I would make an extremely homely nun. Again, no holy gene. And when I questioned why the pope didn't sell his million dollar art collection and make a donation to the poor, the vein in dad's neck swelled to "call 911" proportions. Maybe my holy gene is recessive.

Less than two hours to go. Hope to see you back here next week, but just in case -- tata and thanks for reading.

Words from the Wrinkle Expert

2011-05-15T13:20:00.000-07:00

You've probably heard by now about the mother who injects her eight year old beauty-pageant-loving daughter with botox. Are you in the outraged camp or the smaller, but still vocal, so what camp? I'm in the "what the hell is she thinking" camp myself. The mom was on the morning shows pointing out all those disgusting wrinkles on the little girl's face. Frankly, she must use a Hubble telescope lens because I certainly couldn't see any creases.

I am nearing sixty-five and consider myself somewhat of an expert on wrinkles by virtue of having more than my share -- what comes after gazillion? Crow's feet? Check. Looks like an entire flock of birds have found a home. Laugh lines? Check. But I no longer see any humor in them.

And now that you got me started -- what's with all the age spots? When I was younger I had lots of freckles. Now they've morphed into these masses of brown splotches so I look like a dalmatian, albeit an oddly colored one. Some day I'm going to connect all the dots, mix in a few wrinkles, and see what comes up. That could be the beginning of an entire new geezer art form. At least this kind of body art would put the wrinkles to good use.

Did We See The Same Movie?

2011-05-07T14:19:00.000-07:00

Personal policy: Never read reviews before seeing a movie. Better to go in cold and form your own opinions.

Sadly, this policy is based on personal experience. I feel duped when I blindly believe a four-star rating only to realize that sitting in the dentist chair would be more entertaining. Did we really see the same movie?

I listen intently for the depth of character the reviewer wrote about at length. We're an hour into the film and, so far, the kiddies end of the pool is deeper than anyone in the film.

"Gripping story line" -- this from a male critic whose intellectual faculties have shut down due to the abundance of cleavage on screen. "Great acting" -- also written in a cleavage induced stupor. "A laugh-fest" -- again, let's go with the all-powerful cleavage.

What qualifications does it take to be a movie critic? Are they film school grads, serious movie buffs or is it people sitting in their pajamas surrounded by their twelve cats pounding out an opinion on their laptop?

Unfortunately, some of the more frequently read critics can make or break a movie with a few good praises or pans. They see so many movies I imagine they have to write the review immediately lest they mix up characters and plot. Envision Scarlett O'Hara skipping down the yellow brick road.

I check the newspaper for what's playing, not for what I should see. I choose a movie based on the actors and subject matter. Gotta be honest here though -- a few scenes showing a cute little butt never hurts.

In Praise of the Artichoke

2011-04-30T13:16:00.000-07:00

We tout inventors and discoverers in textbooks and documentaries, but I've always kept a soft spot for those who are overlooked. Like the first person to eat an artichoke. No name, no history, no gastronomic glory.

A dangerous looking plant covered in spikes and bristles, it hardly conveys an "I'm yummy, eat me" message. Ergo, that artichoke-eating trailblazer was either utterly famished or unbelievably curious.

Did they find the heart immediately or did it take months of gnawing on leaves before the "eureka, there's actually something tasty buried in here" moment?

I was served my first artichoke at a dinner party. Such exotic vegetables were foreign to my mother's kitchen. If it didn't come in a Green Giant can, she didn't serve it. So I was embarrassed that I'd never seen an artichoke and even more embarrassed that I had absolutely no idea whether to attack it with a knife, a fork or a spoon. The side dish of garlic mayonnaise just added to the dilemma. Was it for slathering or dipping? Either approach seemed like deplorable table manners so I waited --- and watched.

Thankfully others at the table were artichoke-adept so I mimicked them --- until it was time to uncover the heart. The frustration got the better of me and I blurted out that I was indeed an artichoke novice in need of guidance.

Hundreds of artichokes later, I still imagine that first brave soul who deemed the plant edible. Here's to your one day being at least a cookbook footnote -- or even mentioned in Wikipedia.

Size Does Matter

2011-04-23T15:33:00.000-07:00

Show of hands, please. Who's going to watch the royal wedding next week live starting in the middle of the night our time? I thought so. Any certifiably sane person will be sound asleep.

News flash, folks! Said royal wedding will be repeated ad nauseam on any number of channels as well as on-line. Unless you're actually British, I don't see the point of losing sleep over the nuptials.

Now if you want to make a pajama party out of it, that's different. Gather your girlfriends -- your male friends probably aren't interested unless the bridesmaids are naked. Brew a pot of tea. Warm a few scones. And, most importantly, don the wildest hat you can find.

What is it with the Brits and those hats? Apparently size does matter. The wider the brim the better the hat. What's the protocol when one large hat meets another? Does the larger hat lean to the right or the left?  One needs to know these things before delivering an air kiss.  Perhaps British girls learn these points of etiquette in school, while we Yanks -- definitely not into the large hat scene --ponder over which fork to use.

Hats perched on the side of the head are particularly interesting.  They look like the work of a crazed origami master who was let loose with yards of fabric. Since they appear to defy gravity I wonder what holds them on?

My grandmother used hat pins so large they could pop the Hindenburg. Are they the key? Giant bobby pins -- jeez, does anyone under a certain age know what a bobby pin is?  Maybe they're lined with a special adhesive -- kind of like a chapeau post-it, guaranteed not to give you hat-hair.

I'm thankful I wasn't invited to the royal wedding, Too much hat anxiety.

Long Live the Paragraph!

2011-04-17T13:23:00.000-07:00

If you follow this blog regularly, you'll notice that the last few posts appeared as one long paragraph -- no indenting, no spacing. Lest you think I've lost my formatting mind or my grasp of English grammar, let me explain.

While I am an avid fan of white space and short paragraphs, unfortunately the blogspot techies are not.

When I reviewed the original text, all my paragraphs were right where I left them. But press the "publish post" icon and all semblance of paragraphing vanishes into some e.e. cummings hole in cyberspace. Can you say "glitch"? Can you also say "helpless"? Can you also say --- well, perhaps I should keep that one to myself.

These are the times I think the Luddites are onto something. But before letting a computer claim victory, I went -- where else? -- to the "help" page. Apparently there is a virtual cadre of other victims trapped in formatting hell. I found solace in knowing that others cherish the paragraph as I do. I found annoyance in knowing that the solutions offered were useless.

I feel the urge to go back to those one-Dickensian-length-paragraph posts and enter the word "paragraph" where one should be. Since I can't have actual white space, I'll just make my own.

Stay Calm -- and Carry a Cell Phone

2011-04-09T17:15:00.000-07:00

I'm not one of those people who freak out easily. In fact, I'm usually the one who holds it all together advising others to remain calm. If I were a cartoon character, I'd be drawn with horn-rimmed glasses, my hair in a bun, wearing orthopedic shoes. You laugh, but next time you're in a situation you'll flash on that image and pray I was with you. Unfortunately, my reputation as the Queen of Calm is forever tainted. It seems I do freak out easily --- when my building elevator gets stuck between floors --- oh yeah, with me in it! In this old building the elevator has no emergency call buttons, phones, walkie-talkies, tribal drums or carrier pigeons to connect with the outside world. I had to rely on the most primitive form of communication -- yelling my freakin' head off. To no avail, I might add. I am the Moaner in Chief when it comes to people misusing their cell phones -- and that probably won't change -- but I finally got to prove my "they're great in an emergency" theory. So here I am trapped in a little box dangling in the elevator shaft. Who ya gonna call? The Fire Department! I fully expected them to bolt up the stairs, break down the door with an axe and pull me to safety. Guess I watch too many movies. Apparently they prefer a less invasive, albeit less dramatic tool -- a screwdriver. The hunky firemen took the door off its hinges, out I stepped and off they went. The good news? I climb the stairs more than I used to. Still don't quite trust Mr. Otis' invention.

Sugar Trumps Science

2011-04-02T14:03:00.000-07:00

Think about all the diets you've been on. Well, maybe not all of them or this could take a while. You probably bought the book, watched the DVD or called the toll-free number "in the next twenty minutes" after being persuaded by the smiling, svelte infomercial success stories. Count the times you joined a gym, only to drop out. Those fees alone could probably feed an entire Guatemalan village for life. Apparently we've been doing it all wrong. Scientists have published a study that proves the best way to cut calories is to think about calories. Let's say you want a burrito. According to these lab coats, if you think enough about wanting a burrito, even mime yourself eating one, you'll trick your brain into no longer craving said burrito. It thinks it's satisfied even though nary a dollop of guacamole has passed your lips. I'm always open to possibilities but haven't found this to be true in my life. If I think about chocolate, for example, I will obsess about it until I actually have a real live bit resting on my tongue, sending my taste buds into a state of sheer bliss. Go ahead -- trick me into thinking I've already eaten leafy green vegetables, turnips and zucchini...just don't mess with my sweet tooth. Besides, if I pretend to unwrap a Snickers, won't I find imaginary peanuts? Talk about a last straw.

Wassup with English? OMG!

2011-03-26T16:19:00.000-07:00

Warning: the following breaking news might make English language purists weep. Read on at your own risk and hang on to your Roget's.

The Oxford English Dictionary -- the dictionary of all dictionaries -- has decided to include LOL and OMG in its next on-line edition.

Wait, there's more. "Wassup" is also among the new entries. I saved it for last since it might push the "Stop Language Alterations and Atrocities" groups over the edge. I know I'm teetering.

Perhaps Noah Webster's rolling over in his grave, but I think if he were around today he'd be one happy lexicographer -- and possibly a texter. I'd like to think he'd bookmark the Urban Dictionary. There's an abundance of colorful, descriptive words being coined and infused into every day conversation. No one could ever accuse spoken English of being a dull, dry language. Of course, there are the French who'd rather not have their native tongue tainted with words like Levi's or Google, but that's a discussion for another day.

I don't know wassup with the OED or what criteria they use. But, oh my god, these entries make me laugh out loud.

Visit California -- While You Can

2011-03-19T15:14:00.000-07:00

Living in earthquake country is an every day gamble. You never know where those seismic dice will land. At least when you park your tush in Vegas you have some idea of the odds, and you get free booze. Here seismologists predict "the big one" -- that's when Nevadans will inherit beach front property since most of California will have fallen into the Pacific -- sometime in the next 30-100 years.

Could they be a tad more specific? Apparently not. They know why earthquakes happen. Just not when.

However, there's a maverick geologist making the rounds on the local news who claims we'll have an earthquake here in the next eight days. He's basing his prediction on various scientific pre-quake indicators -- some of which, like the beaching of dead whales along the coast, have not yet occurred. This is the part where you keep your fingers crossed and don't read anything too biblical into unusual phenomena like thousands of dead fish in a Southern California harbor.

Do I believe him or not? Does he know something other seismologists don't? It's like anyone telling your future or reading your horoscope. You want to believe the good bits but pooh pooh the bad. Only in the case of an earthquake there are no good bits. Unlike Carol King, I'd rather not feel the earth move under my feet.

I think it just makes people more anxious than they already are. We're already sitting in the path of a possible radiation plume and the stores are out of whatever iodine capsules we're supposed to be taking as an antidote. Was that a passing truck shaking the windows or.....?

Whether the guy is right or wrong, I am motivated to replenish my survival kit. The canned tuna is beyond its shelf life and I ate the chocolate in a bout of depression over the holidays.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

2011-03-13T11:21:00.000-07:00

Did you remember to change your clocks last night? It's fascinating how we can alter time with a mere spin of the hour hand. A reminder just how arbitrary time is. We all agree it's two o'clock and swoosh, we all agree it's three.

Last night it was just an hour. Every four years we add an entire day to the calendar.

If we can so easily mess with time, then why are we so hung up on age? Some of us hesitate to tell the truth. Others pick a particularly good year and stick with it. And the adage "sixty is the new forty" has become a mantra. Frankly, I'm not at all sure what that means. Why can't sixty just be the new sixty? After all, we're not the same sixty our parents were.

I'll be turning sixty-five soon and I plan to celebrate. But check back with me in a few months when the day actually arrives. You might just find me under the covers curled up in a sixty-five year old ball -- reading the heaps of Medicare brochures I'm currently receiving in the mail.

How do these insurance companies know my name, address and birth date? Is there a national soon-to-be-geezer roster? If so, I want to be on the "do not mail" list.

Take Two of These and...

2011-03-05T16:36:00.000-08:00

You don't actually have to work on Madison Avenue to know that an advertiser places commercials where they will be seen by the proper demographic. Beer during a sporting event. Sugar laced cereals during Saturday morning cartoons. Just about any kind of prescription drugs during the network evening news.

Have you watched any of the three major networks news broadcasts recently? If not you're missing out on a litany of remedies to lower your cholesterol, keep your heart healthy, have great sex -- well maybe just sex, period -- and a laundry list of other ailments frequently associated with older adults, including gout. With all due respect to those who suffer from it, I thought gout ended with the Victorians.

They all begin with a grey haired actor complaining of some malfunctioning body part. Scene Two: they talk to their doctor about this miracle drug. Scene Three: grey haired actor romps with the grandchildren, wins at tennis, or flirts with their partner -- and we know where that leads.

I need to know -- have you ever asked your doctor about a drug you've seen in a commercial? Show of hands, please. Used to be the doc would just hand you a prescription and command you to pop a few pills daily. Now you can be pro-active with your meds all because of some advertising creative team whose combined ages don't yet match ours.

Do these children think we obsess about ailing health? That we're just one walking mass of pain? We may no longer be able to kick like a Rockette, but we're not ready for bucket kicking either.

You ARE Going Out Looking Like That?

2011-02-26T13:09:00.000-08:00

The Academy Awards are tomorrow night and, like last year, I've not seen most of the nominated movies. Because I'll have no knowledge of acting, writing or directing quality, I'll have to focus on a topic wide open to opinions based on sheer gut reaction -- the fashions!

Criticizing celebrity style -- or lack thereof -- brings out the inner Joan Rivers in all of us. I'm not talking about the fashion A-listers. We expect them to wow us with their couture.

I'm talking about those who make us wonder if they have a...whaddya call it?....oh yeah...a mirror in their Hollywood mansion. How many times did your mother stop you in your date night tracks by asking "You're not going out looking like that, are you?" A warning delivered by mothers around the planet. There's probably a mother in Oceania scrutinizing her daughter's outfit even as we speak -- well, actually read, but you get my point.

Many celebs consult stylists. They have people who dress them, do their hair and makeup. Does a stylist need actual training or just have to know their way around Rodeo Drive? While most of us would drool for someone to pamper us like that, I think we'd draw the proverbial line at looking like a Clown College alum.

I've no idea who'll be wearing something jaw droppingly awful on the red carpet. But I'm sure there'll be someone who will do for the Oscars what Lady Gaga did for the Grammy's.

Reading Causes Wrinkles?

2011-02-19T15:03:00.000-08:00

A giant overstuffed chair for curling up in and all the novels of the world at my fingertips. That's my idea of heaven. I'm an avid reader. Give me a hearty -- or a Hardy -- novel and a comfy place to park my tush and I am indeed blissful.

I have favorite authors but I'm always open to try someone new. I tend to balance my reading list with both classics and current releases. Unfortunately, I've too often been sucked into the hype of a "New York Times Bestseller" or "Named the Year's Best Novel by ..." or "Short-listed for the Booker Prize" blurb on the cover. Did we read the same book? After a disappointing contemporary novel, I retreat to Mr. Dickens or Ms. Austen. They never disappoint.

Like most of us, I want a good story, dimensional characters you can cheer for and cry with. My book selection process is a simple one: read the summary on the back cover, then thumb through, scanning a few random pages.

But I've recently been forced to add something new to the mix. Type size! How close will I have to hold the book to actually, well, read it? Will I need a magnifying glass to make it through the prologue? Think about the bottom lines of an eye chart. Now think about an entire chapter in that size. It's difficult to make out without squinting and crinkling my forehead.

Books will soon come with a warning label: Caution -- may cause unwanted wrinkles.

Valentine's Day -- Love It Or Hate It?

2011-02-12T10:46:00.000-08:00

Let's just cut to the chase and choose the most obvious topic for this week's post -- Valentine's Day. Either you love it or you hate it.

In this corner are those who sincerely believe that Valentine's Day is a vast conspiracy dreamed up by the greeting card, candy and flower industries. It's a day that utterly wreaks of guilt. Don't believe me? Test it out.

Forget the five pound box of chocolates. No roses -- long-stemmed or otherwise -- for your sweetie. Buy nothing pink. No heart shaped anything. Finally, mention what a stupid, contrived day you think it is. Then just march your sorry heart shaped butt to the proverbial doghouse cuz that's where you'll be serving time.

In the other corner are those who immerse themselves in Valentine's Day. What greeting card, candy or flower industries conspiracy? These guys are first in line to mail the cards, buy the candy and send the flowers. No sweetheart? No problem. Aficionados of all that is February 14th view the day through a wide lens. No sweetheart? No problem. Friends and acquaintances make their list.

The best thing about February 14th is February 15th. That's when all that heart shaped chocolate goes on sale.

Noise While We Nosh?

2011-02-05T12:18:00.000-08:00

Gather a friend or two for good food and lively conversation and it doesn't really matter what or where we eat. The chat's the thing.

But lately it seems that the decibel level in restaurants has been seriously cranked up. Ah, you say. Noise -- the chief complaint of a budding geezer. There may be some truth to that, but I think others will agree that we shouldn't need a bull horn to converse across the dining table.

I enjoy a lively atmosphere. If it's quiet I want, I'll take a sandwich to the library. But a cafe shouldn't sound like game seven of the World Series either.

You don't need Webster to figure out that background music is, well, in the background. Background music in a restaurant is not the same as background music on the assembly line at General Motors. My recent server delivered the litany of specials that could have been franks and beans for all I heard.

I'm also big on ambiance. When I eat Hawaiian I expect to hear a freakin' ukulele -- yes, in the background. I'd like a side of mariachi with my burrito, por favor. A little oom-pah-pah with my sauerkraut.

Shouting over the din to table mates has become the norm. And it's really put a damper on my eavesdropping. Now I'll never know the back story of the couple at the next table.

Love Those Little Chocolates

2011-01-29T13:27:00.000-08:00

My favorite candy snack? Without a doubt -- m&m's. Just a handful usually satisfies the craving for...make that the need for...okay, I'll admit it -- the obsession for chocolate. I usually keep a bag in my purse in case of emergency blood sugar dips so I guess you could say I nosh for medical reasons. Why do I feel the necessity to justify my chocolate addiction?

Unlike those who claim to have preferences, I am m&m's color blind. The greens taste no different than the reds, the yellows, the browns or the blues. But then I can't tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi either.

Some follow unusual procedures when tackling a bag of these bite-sized sweets. For example, eat all the yellows first, then the reds, then the blues etc. These rituals might come from a childhood game or memory. But it may not be a stretch to say that these same people consult a Magic 8 Ball or a Ouija Board as well.

Me? There's no method to my munching madness. Place fingers in bag. Grab handful. Move handful to mouth. Repeat process til bag is empty. The bags are small enough so you don't really overdo it. Just enough to satisfy that sweet tooth, which in my case is a molar.

However, a recent bag was seemingly bottomless. I ate a few, later another few, the next day a few more. Before thanking the heavens for a loaves and fishes miracle, I read the bag. There it was, in large colored type: Sharing Size!

Blast! As if eating chocolate wasn't guilt inducing enough. Now I need to feed the hungry as well.

Is There Armrest Etiquette?

2011-01-23T17:00:00.000-08:00

Does anyone know the etiquette of sharing an armrest? Is there any? Here are a few techniques I've used, but I'm not endorsing any of them. You decide whether they fall into the polite category or do they broadcast some deeply rooted personality flaw.

First: the "my edge/thy edge" share. My limb rests gently on my side while thine does the same on thy side. Here's hoping that my elbow doth not touch thine.

Second: the "I'll take the front/thou takest the back" approach to sharing. It's understood that the rear position be taken by the sharer with shorter arms, thus keeping us from leaning freakishly forward to claim armrest victory.

Third: the "it's my turn to hog the entire space/when I'm done it belongs to thou" share. This is the trickiest one of all since it's instinctive. How long is too long? All of Act One? Hardly. Halfway through the flight? Probably not.

Fourth: the "let me inch my way over to thy side before thou realizes I've pushed thee out of armrest territory" strategy.

It's surprising how competitive we are for the coveted armrest. The second our seat mate reaches for a tissue, we're all over that now vacant space and the battle begins anew.

Why did I use ye olde English pronouns above? Because I think the only way to survive the battle of the armrests is to think Quaker-like thoughts. Of course they're peaceful, not necessarily saintly. Wonder what it's like to share an armrest with one of them.

So What's Your Sign? No, Seriously!

2011-01-15T11:16:00.000-08:00

First the demotion of Pluto. Now the zodiac shake-up. Something to do with the tilting of the earth's axis over a few thousand years, mixed with the fact that the Babylonians omitted a sign from the original model.

Imagine the chaos in the minds of the true believers who rely on an accurate horoscope to plan their day -- and no reliable horoscope to turn to for guidance.

Face it -- even we non-believers check the ol' horoscope one time or another. When it's good news, we'd like to believe it. When it's bad, the pooh pooh factor kicks in.

My personal upset? Under this new system I am no longer a Gemini. I've always liked the personality traits of the twins -- creative, unpredictable, loyal, kind, logical. I like the idea of being a duo. Sometimes you need the back-up.

Should this revisionist zodiac kick in, I will be a Taurus. A bull? Pullleeze! How very unyielding. So unromantic. Far too masculine.

Once a Gemini, always a Gemini. A Taurus I will never be. Uh oh. That doesn't sound too stubborn and unyielding, does it?

The Holidays Done Come and Gone

2011-01-08T14:25:00.000-08:00

The holidays are officially just a memory. January 6th -- the Epiphany, Twelfth Night, the Twelfth Day of Christmas, Little Christmas -- is the cut off date for most of us. Keep your tree or decorations up much longer than that and the neighbors start talking.

There isn't a remnant of Christmas anywhere in Union Square -- the major shopping area here in San Francisco. Makes you question whether it really happened or were you in some dream world since Thanksgiving? Mind you, it's a dream world in which you have your Visa card in hand ready to pounce on a good deal. And, mind you, that dream could morph into nightmare status when you get the bill later this month.

The saddest part of this post-holiday season is the trees cast out on the sidewalk -- next stop the city's mulching machine. That tree gave its life so you'd have a place to hang some cheap tinsel.
Now may it -- the tree, not the tinsel -- rest in peace.

This, of course, poses a philosophical question whether a mulched tree actually rests anywhere since it's scattered around the many parks and gardens. Perhaps the tree is just part of the cycle of life -- it grows, it gets chopped down, we decorate it, it gets chewed into a bazillion pieces, then spit out in order to help other plants live. It's an altruistic little evergreen that contains symbolism which.......

Please, someone stop me before I start singing Kumbaya.

Two Thousand Eleven or.....?

2011-01-01T15:39:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! I hope I'm not disturbing your resolution-making session or writing too loudly in the case of any hung over readers.

Whether you make resolutions or not, there's something special about the first day of a new year. It's just so hopeful, so full of promise. A 365-day do-over.

Unfortunately, I often dwell on the dark side -- those things I failed to complete or even start last year. But I am getting better mainly because, as I get older, I have a difficult time remembering my to-do list from last January. Three cheers for failing synapses!

The new year does pose a problem. Do I pronounce it two thousand eleven or twenty-eleven?

You'd think that after 10 years, I'd be more comfortable with the two thousands, but they still sound like a mouthful to me.

Save Me From The Drumming Boy

2010-12-25T13:12:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite things about Christmas is the music. I especially like the magnificent chorales singing with such gusto and emotion. The old English carols where revelers go wassailing, the Nutcracker, Vivaldi's version of winter.

Not in contention are the "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" pop songs -- bearable only because their life span is those few weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Frankly, by Christmas Eve I'd like to roast the singer's chestnuts on an open fire.

I'm not sure what it is about "The Little Drummer Boy" that brings out the Scrooge in me but the excessive ba-rum-pa-bum-bumming undoubtedly is a factor. It's also the molasses-speed it's sung in. Chunks of my life are frittering away while the kid bangs on that blasted drum.

Everyone has a breaking point -- the moment where you'd spill secrets of the universe just to make the torture stop. For me? Lock me in a room with "The Little Drummer Boy" CD and I'll tell you anything you want to know in record time.

Kitsch to the Nth Degree

2010-12-18T13:29:00.001-08:00

Only a week left for shoppers to participate in the retail frenzy otherwise known as Christmas. Shoppers not just trying to find the perfect gift but the perfect gift on sale. Too much pressure. No wonder people have that glazed look.

One toy store is staying open for 88 hours straight. Marketing departments have given up on cleverly naming the numerous sales. Now it's just Monday Sale! or Wednesday Sale! Black Friday and Cyber Monday seem so long ago.

Perhaps I might make a gift suggestion: the President Obama Chia Pet. Frankly, I don't know whether to laugh out loud or shake my head at the disrespect. After all, the Washington, Lincoln and Statue of Liberty versions are also available -- on the same shelf with SpongeBob.

The creepiest thing about it is that, "in bloom", it looks like he's sporting a lush green Afro.

Kitsch to the nth degree? I think liberals and conservatives could agree on at least that.

Leave the Leg Warmers to the Bolshoi

2010-12-12T14:37:00.000-08:00

Pull up your leg warmers, ladies. Squeeze into that 1980's leotard. Jane Fonda is back in the exercise biz.

Remember those rigorous exercise videos? A lithe, ultra-thin actress guiding you through a workout boot camp -- no smiling allowed. Millions of us bought into it -- literally. She went from award winning movie star to fitness guru faster than you could chant the "no pain, no gain" mantra.

Her new DVDs are for seniors and boomers. Age-appropriate exercises for geezers and we geezers in training. Presumably the routines will get me to break a sweat and not any bones, tone muscles that long ago lost their fight with gravity and tighten a core area that's doing one terrific impersonation of Tweedledum.

Sounds great! Of course I have to actually do the routines, not unlike the ten other DVDs in my "jeez I feel like such a cow and am going to do something about it -- no, seriously" collection.

I just pray she doesn't try to make leg warmers retro.

Bored? Ask for a Refund

2010-12-05T15:03:00.000-08:00

Steve Martin was all over the news this week not because he had his audience rolling in the aisles, but because he had them dozing in their seats. According to an NPR blog, the New York venue where he was interviewed about his latest novel offered a refund for being bored.

Is this the new trend or simply a freak incident? Just think of all the boring movies, plays and lectures you've sat through. All the books you've skimmed in a futile search for a few well-written paragraphs. You can kiss the wasted time goodbye, but if we can get some of the cash back it might ease the pain.

I like the idea in principle but how do you prove boredom? Do you need evidence of your actually nodding off or the number of times you checked the time? Is there paperwork involved? An essay to compare and contrast? Do you have to leave before the end in protest. Is it more difficult to prove I was bored if I stay til the end hoping it will get better? It's like the people who eat all their food in a restaurant and then complain how bad it was.

Is it retroactive? If so, how far back can I go? What if the movie was billed as a comedy and you didn't find it funny? Does that count?

So many questions, I actually hope the New York refund was an isolated incident. I'm getting bored just thinking about it.

A Tryptophan-free Thanksgiving

2010-11-27T14:49:00.000-08:00

Something just wasn't right about Thanksgiving this year. I think it's because I didn't have the traditional feast. That's right -- no turkey, stuffing, yams, cranberries or pumpkin pie. I never realized how much a traditionalist I was until I decided to do something, well, nontraditional.

In San Francisco, it's crab season. Fresh crab ranks high on my yummy scale and I know a lot of people who serve it up for their holiday meal. This year I jumped on the crustacean bandwagon. Delicious, yes. Full of memories, no.

Thanksgiving sparks all variety of stories. My first turkey was cooked with the giblets in their little bag inside the bird. Who knew they were in the other end? Or the year I turned the would-be gravy into a foaming chemistry experiment because I couldn't remember whether to use baking soda or powder.

I have no such memories connected with crab. Not yet, anyway. So let me start one: this is the first Thanksgiving I was able to make it through the meal without secretly unbuttoning my pants. And, since crab is tryptophan-free, there was none of that pesky nodding off after dinner.

But like everything else there is a downside -- a cold crab sandwich the following day just doesn't have the same appeal as that leftover poultry.

Losing the Fitted Sheet Battle -- Again

2010-11-20T15:39:00.000-08:00

To be honest, I've never been the best housekeeper. My apartment is neat, uncluttered and I mop, dust, vacuum and scrub regularly. You know, the basics. I'm just not the housekeeper my mother was.

She ironed our underwear, towels and sheets. I always thought that was a tad above and beyond the call but of course I never said anything out loud. She would be displeased to know that her youngest daughter currently doesn't even own a working iron. Before you imagine me a ball of wrinkles, you should know that I am on very friendly terms with the dry cleaner downstairs. Their "in by 7 out by 5" policy is a lifesaver.

Mother never really showed us how to cook or do housework. Perhaps she hoped we'd osmose it or, way better, marry someone rich enough to provide a maid or two. In her dreams! Neither happened which is why, 40 years later, I still can't fold a fitted sheet.

Is there some secret to this? Does it involve a grasp of geometry -- folding angle to angle? Or is origami a better approach? What if I treat it like fine Japanese paper? Will I wind up with a neatly folded sheet -- or a locust perched on a lotus blossom?

I lose the fitted sheet battle every time I fold laundry. My solution? Roll the damn thing up like a sleeping bag and shove it in the linen closet. However, if you should meet my mother in that great big laundry room in the sky, tell her how orderly my apartment is -- and evade any questions about wrinkled sheets.

The Anti Anti-Aging Argument

2010-11-14T13:43:00.000-08:00

Go to your local pharmacy and you'll find an array of anti-aging products -- creams, gels, lotions all promising to slow down the aging process. Buy ours and you're sure to be mistaken for your twenty-year-old daughter. Buy theirs and you're sure to be carded next time you go to a club.

While these products might have some actual benefits, I remain wary of their effectiveness. And I certainly don't cotton to the message they send -- getting older is some how bad. Wrinkles are the new leprosy. Soon we'll be wearing little bells to warn the unwrinkled that we're approaching. Children will point. Colleagues will turn away. The subway seat next to us will remain empty.

We are The Wrinkled. Pooh-poohers of botox. Debunkers of Madison Avenue's look-younger campaigns. Admirers of the Keith Richard's look. Crow's feet? We've got 'em. Frown lines? Bring 'em on. Turkey neck? Oh, please don't make me go there. My entire anti anti-aging argument falls apart when it comes to the dreaded turkey neck. So far camouflage like turtle necks and scarves have been successful but I'm open --- waaayyyy open --- to suggestions.

Letting Go

2010-11-06T14:56:00.000-07:00

A minimalist. That's how I'd describe myself. I've never been a collector of stuff. In fact, too much stuff makes me uneasy and I feel compelled to offload some of it.

You see I've always had this dream that should I wake up some morning and want to run away, I could tie all my stuff in that proverbial red bandanna and go. Granted, I've yet to take action on that dream but I'm not giving up on it either. So if you some day see a white haired woman along the highway toting a bandanna on a stick, just honk.

Now here's the problem. I can't seem to apply my minimalist red bandanna theory to my closet. I have clothes in there from 10 years ago -- maybe longer. One jacket has so much shoulder padding it looks like I could play for the NFL.

Come on. Fess up. Raise your hand if you have something in your closet from your hippie or disco days --- maybe both! Hot pants? Go-go boots? Anything tie-dyed? Anything tie-dyed bearing a peace symbol?

Most of my things just don't fit anymore. I keep them mainly as incentive to lose the 20 pounds I've gained the past couple of years. Right! And those pounds will melt away as unicorns frolic in the forest of World Peace.

That line between delusional and hopeful gets more blurry every day, yet I just can't put my skinny jeans in the Goodwill bag.

An E-Reader In My Future?

2010-10-30T15:34:00.000-07:00

I am an avid reader. Have been since I was a kid. The day I got my first library card ranks in my Top 20. I finish a book, I'm ready to start another one. Can't stand that interim bookless feeling.

There's something comforting about the feel of a book. Turning the pages. Placing the bookmark to monitor your progress. I can spend hours in a bookstore or library reading dust jacket blurbs, letting the pages fall open to random chapters, scanning the dialogue and analyzing the cover art.

No doubt -- I do indeed love the actual physical object known in the vernacular as a book. Okay, okay, I'm stalling. It's confession time: I am pondering buying an e-reader. There. I said it. I feel like a traitor, a heretic, a turncoat, a cheat, Don't I owe some loyalty to all those bookstores and libraries that have fed my habit all these years? Will I ever be able to look the librarian in the eye again. Will the bookseller somehow know that I'm going electronic? Perhaps I'll start wearing a giant "E" on my shirt to further ostracize myself from the good people who remain true to The Book.

Let me explain before you all pile on with reasons to loathe e-readers. I just finished a 900 page book. That's a few pounds of paper and I got an upper body workout just holding it every night. That's when I started to toy with the e-reader idea. If there are other 3-inch thick tomes in my reading future.....

I doubt that I could do it cold turkey. Cut off books altogether? Too extreme. What's next -- a world without chocolate? Besides it would take some time to wean me off of curling up with a good book. I just don't get the same glow over a plastic gadget made in China.

She Died With Her Pearls On

2010-10-24T13:01:00.000-07:00

During the 1980's I lived in Los Angeles and signed on to various freelance advertising and public relations projects, including the annual holiday parade sponsored by one of the Hollywood TV stations.

Big name celebrities -- plus the usual B-listers and wannabes -- waving at the crowds from a shiny T-bird convertible or company sponsored float. It was live TV. Cue the driver. Cue the marching band. No room for mistakes. The sheer excitement trumped any jitters.

Following the parade, we were treated to an after-party with munchies to die for -- plus an open bar. This is where you could rub your exhausted elbows with the likes of Jimmy Stewart and Carol Channing. Easy to become star struck around such glitterati, but I never went gaga or drooled over anyone until.....

There she was -- flashing that warm, motherly smile that so enveloped me as a kid. I couldn't help myself. I walked up to Beaver and Wally's mom and gushed. And ever June Cleaver on and off camera -- she hugged me!

I bring this up because Barbara Billingsley died a few weeks ago -- probably with her pearls on.

Bus Ahoy!

2010-10-16T10:18:00.000-07:00

I have been car less since 1996. I sold my last car when I moved abroad and, when I returned, I moved to a city with laudable public transportation. Of course I endlessly complain about the service, fare hikes, surly drivers and fellow passengers who, I am convinced, are put on this earth with the sole purpose of challenging my resolution to be more kind.

So nothing new or interesting to report about the actual riding of the bus. But I did notice something about the waiting for the bus. I tend to stand facing the direction from which the bus is coming and, oddly enough, others at the stop do likewise.

Did you ever see flocks of birds at the beach all facing the same way? Now visualize those birds with MP3 players plugged into their ears toting leather backpacks. Voila! A typical downtown bus stop image. Of course our position has absolutely no bearing on the prompt or delayed arrival of said bus. Only Zeus, God, Buddha or Simon Cowell actually have any control over actual bus schedules.

I like to think that we're scouts on the look-out for the behemoth diesel wagon to take us on our way. Bus ahoy! And everyone hopes to be the first to call it.

Puccini and Peanuts

2010-10-03T11:42:00.000-07:00

Opera definitely falls into the category of high brow culture. I've been to seven or eight operas, mostly the Italian ones, with a Wagner thrown in for variety.

My confession? I've fallen asleep in some of the best seats in the house. Rather pricey napping, wouldn't you agree? My opera appreciation campaign was short lived. I finally had to admit that I simply didn't care for it. A smattering of arias is the best I can do. When you surround that with hours of drama, I shut down.

Here in San Francisco the opera company performs in a beautiful venue, but once a year they simulcast a performance at the ballpark. It's free and makes opera available to everyone. This year an estimated 30,000 people showed up.

I hemmed and hawed about going. Should I give it another try? The experience would certainly be different with so many people, outdoors, on a big screen. Plus, it's difficult to doze off in those ballpark seats so no worries there.

Why didn't I go? The concession stands. Somehow listening to the opera -- a high brow experience (see paragraph above) -- while noshing a hot dog and guzzling a Bud -- a delicious but definitely low brow experience -- just didn't gel in my mind.

Imagine Pavarotti performing before a beer burping audience. It makes my world tilt on its cultural axis -- and I don't even like opera.

I Flip-Flop Over Flip-Flops

2010-09-26T13:45:00.000-07:00

In between errands I perched myself on a bench in Union Square. If you've ever been to San Francisco you know it's the hub of the city, teeming with both tourists and locals. It's a great place to take a shopping break or nurse a latte. For me, it wins any and all awards as the best place to examine variations in the gene pool -- otherwise known as people watching.

At the risk of sounding utterly simplistic, humans do indeed come in all shapes and sizes -- a real salmagundi. A real what? OK, OK, I have to confess I've loved that word forever and, frankly, find it difficult to work into a conversation. So let me show off just this once. Salmagundi is of French derivation meaning a medley or mixture.

Did I learn it in French class? Hardly. In French 101, we were always entering the class, opening the windows and asking what our fellow students called themselves. Salmagundi was the name of a deli I frequented during the 70's mainly because I loved the name.

But I digress. Back to Union Square. Body types? Some could pose for Reuben, some for Picasso. Some would do well on the basketball court, others should look into checkers. Hair colors that match no shade in the natural world. Flat bellies. Round bellies. Really round bellies. If it's an assortment you want, we humans certainly have it.

But can you guess what one clothing item more than half had in common? Flip-flops.

I wore flip-flops as protection from whatever disgusting fungus thrived in our high school locker room. I have a hard time shifting those little rubber soles from the mental category of shower sandal to fashion statement. Perhaps a few more visits to Union Square will help.

Raise Your Hand If You Own One

2010-09-18T15:49:00.001-07:00

So let's get right to it. Raise your hand if you or someone you know actually owns a chia pet. I didn't think so.

I'm probably not the first to tell you that the holidays are just around the proverbial corner and that means a deluge of TV ads for the critter. Is it just my memory or have they been using the same commercial for, well, let's just round it off to eons shall we?

It sounds like the perfect gift for the office secret Santa or one of those no-gifts-of-more-than-$10 holiday parties and yet I've never heard of anyone who has either given or received one.

This is not a criticism. Simply wondering who the demographic is. There must be a website, a twitter account and perhaps even a chat room for chia lovers. I'll have to do a bit of research.

But if I don't find anything, I'm sticking with my theory that it's akin to the fruit cake legend -- there is just one in the entire world, it's making the rounds and it's coming soon to a Christmas tree near you.

After the Beep....You Know the Drill

2010-09-12T10:58:00.000-07:00

The answering machine and voice mail -- are they the same thing? -- are great communication conveniences. For the caller, you can leave a message and avoid the hassle of repeatedly calling back.

And it puts the callee in control. You decide who gets to vault that personal screening wall you've carefully constructed. No time to deal with a chatterbox? Don't want to explain why you blew off the dental cleaning? Let the machine take the call.

However, I think there needs to be a manual on how to leave a message. Name and number are, of course, essential. But listen up, class. Can you say "succinct"?

Some people feel that beep is a signal for them to ramble endlessly. I have a few friends who've sowed the seeds for a new game show. All they need is Alex Trebek to make it work. Since I'm not answering the phone, they recite a litany of places I could possibly be and reasons why I'm not picking up.

Maybe you're out doing something fun -- or maybe I'm scrubbing the toilet. Maybe you're taking a nap -- or maybe I've run off to Vegas to be a showgirl. Maybe you're working late -- or maybe I'm in Oslo accepting the Nobel Peace Prize.

Wherever I might be and whatever I might be doing, I am not answering the phone so please leave a message -- a succinct one -- after the beep.

Zapping Our Tiny Tootsies

2010-09-04T12:43:00.000-07:00

It's getting more difficult to find shoes that fit well. Seems there's a small growth that's pitched camp on the outside of my foot. Perhaps it's the vestige of a sixth toe or some other evolutionary flaw. It doesn't hurt. It's not unsightly. It just means my shoes need a wider toe box. Certainly there are more important things to worry about.

But I can't help wondering where it came from. Analyzing the results of a self-inflicted multiple choice podiatry quiz, I just may have found the culprit: the shoe fitting x-ray machines found in nearly every shoe store in America during the 1950s. If you're of a certain age, you know what I'm talking about. If you're a tad younger, let me explain.

Before mom paid out hard earned cash for shoes we'd quickly outgrow, the salesperson would have us step into a contraption that zapped our tootsies right through the shoes. Next, wriggle your toes to be sure there was room for those young feet. The machine had three viewing points -- one for the customer (me), another for a companion (usually mom) and another for the salesperson.

Personally, I found this fluoroscope x-ray machine fascinating. It was like a really cool science fiction toy. I'd stick my feet in while the salesman was fetching additional shoes or mom was distracted. Hey, I was 5! What did I know about radiation?

As dangerous as it might have been, you have to admit it was a brilliant sales tool. Talk about finding the perfect fit. Interested in a fluoroscope x-ray shoe fitting machine factoid? According to the Internet, the same industrial engineer designed the Oscar Meyer Wiener Mobile.

Remember that next time you play Trivial Pursuit -- or eat a hot dog.

A Coffee Shop -- When You Need Peace & Quiet

2010-08-28T18:08:00.000-07:00

I've always thought of the coffee shop as a center for conversation. It's a relaxing place to meet a friend or to strike up a discussion with the person at the next table. Comfy chairs, music, a cup of tea and a warm pastry -- the perfect formula for sharing ideas. Kind of like the salon societies but with caffeine.

Recently I stopped by a neighborhood cafe with a friend. Something just didn't feel right. Everyone was nursing a large cup of something. Everyone sat facing the same direction. Everyone had their laptop open. Tapping of the keyboards was the only audible sound. Is this study hall or Starbucks?

It's official. Wi-fi had made coffee shop conversation an endangered species. Oh, people are talking -- just not to anyone in the same room.

Watch Your Head!

2010-08-21T12:21:00.000-07:00

Last week at my favorite Thai restaurant I happened to be seated facing the restroom. Far enough away so it didn't spoil the dining experience, but close enough to see they'd made what I suppose was an improvement. They've added one of those crawling signs above the door to inform patrons whether it's in use or not. Smart idea, yes?

But there was another message that caught my attention. After it changed from "occupied" to "not occupied" and back again, it also said "watch your head". I silently asked myself "why, what's it gonna do?". Then I thought perhaps it was the other meaning of "head" as in the john on a ship. Not too far fetched and a bit of a play on words since it was, after all, a bathroom.

Me? A word freak? Absolutely! I entertain myself endlessly playing with words. I especially love it when words are misused as in "The Russians use the acrylic alphabet." Now that's funnier than any TV sitcom line.

But to get back to the "watch your head" sign --- I had to check it out. I waited for the sign to say "not occupied" then approached. You could drive a Hummer through that bathroom door. I needed two hands to lock it. Did the restaurant cater to a secret clientele of really tall people -- a basketball team perhaps -- who might have to duck?

Our server -- a lovely Thai woman with English limited to the restaurant business -- didn't understand my question so the mystery remains. Meanwhile I'll enjoy my coconut soup and watch my head when I use the restroom -- just in case.

Saddle Shoes, Anyone?

2010-08-15T11:02:00.000-07:00

Where I live kids are going back to school tomorrow. That's why they look so depressed today -- another vacation spoken about in the past tense. Another essay on what I did last summer -- should I make up an Amazon adventure or stick with the standard archaeological dig near the pyramids? Who's the new teacher and, most importantly, what's that mystery lunch on the cafeteria menu?

I actually liked going back to school -- well not to math and science classes but I usually found social studies pretty interesting. Of course, it was always presented through a Catholic school filter so I can't vouch for objectivity.

Alright -- enough educational kissing up. The real reason I liked going back to school was the shopping. There were the mandatory pens, notebooks and other school supplies. But for me -- a bonus. Every September I was the lucky recipient of a new school wardrobe. If the plaid skirts, navy blazers and penny loafers were supposed to inspire me to greater academic heights I missed the point -- sorry mom and dad -- but I sure looked good struggling through my multiplication tables.

Recently, I've been thinking about how I'd love a pair of saddle shoes. Must just be that time of year.

The Cleaver's We Were Not

2010-08-08T11:13:00.000-07:00

"At Joe's Appliances we're like family." "Mary's Diner -- it's like eating with family."

Is family really a selling point? Perhaps if your parents were June and Ward Cleaver or your last name was Von Trapp.

For some, family conjures up a quiet dinner exchange where Billie and Janie shared anecdotes about their day, while everyone listened politely and, when they finished, everyone told them how interesting their stories had been.

For me, family conjures up a loud, bickering dinner exchange where Billie and Janie tried to share anecdotes about their day while everyone interrupted and, when they finished, told them they needed a haircut.

Regrettably, this happened before the popularity of TV reality shows. Bring in a camera crew for just one of our dysfunctional Thanksgiving dinners and some network could have made ratings history.

I dreamed of being adopted by my best friend's family. They never argued. Their mother was beautiful and they had a kindly live-in grandmother. I knew this was as close as I was ever going to get to the Cleaver's and I got down on my little elementary school girl knees and prayed they'd realize that I had indeed been born into the wrong family and would make arrangements with my parents.

Of course, now that we're all older my family isn't the Jerry Springer Show it used to be. But can you see why I might be a tad wary of shopping at places that treat me like family?

Mail Order Sex Pills -- To Buy or Not to Buy

2010-07-31T16:09:00.001-07:00

Every so often something I actually want to read mistakenly slips into the spam function of my e-mail, so every so often I check the spam box just to make sure I'm not missing anything important.

This past week was one of those "every so often" points in time so I checked. Nothing of importance --- unless I planned on a Viagra shopping spree. I counted seventeen e-mails selling it or other erectile dysfunction drugs. One of them had "legendary sex pills" on the subject line. Another accepted Visa. Still others tried to lure me into opening the mail with lines like "top drugs for men", "sex medicine" and simply "male pills".

Oh, yeah -- three ads for breast enhancement were also mixed in.

Are they legit? I get the distinct mental picture that some of these pills are made by a guy in his pajamas with his twenty-seven cats curled up around the mail-ordered lab equipment in his garage. I'm all for the entrepreneurial spirit but I'd like to know that the drug maker at least passed Chem 101.

If I were a guy concerned about my sexual performance, I'd want to be damn sure these "male pills" were truly, well, manly. Granted, they might be a bargain, but they also might be the same formula your girlfriend takes for PMS.

The Venting Store -- Coming Soon to a Mall Near You

2010-07-24T12:35:00.000-07:00

NPR recently aired a piece about a venting store in China. The shop, for women only, requires that you don a helmet and gloves and fork over a fee. Once protected and paid in full, you're free to throw, smash, break or otherwise demolish anything in the store.

It wasn't clear just what the ladies were destroying but I assume it's inexpensive Dollar Store merchandise probably made in China. Can you spell irony?

Actually, I think it's a great idea. Just think of all the times you wanted to throw, slam or hit something because you were pushed over the edge by an idiot in traffic, a colleague in the adjacent cubicle or the pizza guy who smothered your order in pepperoni and you're a vegetarian. Yes, we know you didn't throw, slam or hit something but wouldn't it have felt great if you could have?

This could be a lucrative business, albeit with a tad of overhead what with having to replace your stock every day. But, to paraphrase "Field of Dreams", if you throw it they will come.

Of course a good gym workout, deep breathing or a yoga class calms you down. But just for a change ---- imagine dropping by the mall to break things for an hour. Could be a whole new kind of retail therapy. After a few visits to the venting store, you might decide you don't need that Prozac refill after all.

The Venting Store -- coming soon to a mall near you.

Mammograms We Have Had -- And Hated

2010-07-10T12:47:00.000-07:00

Let me begin by saying that I fully agree that women should have annual mammograms. Yearly screenings have saved countless lives and should be part of any health regimen.

That said....what the hell is up with that machine? Lay your girls on the little plastic tray. Then let a stranger squeeze them like a mozzarella pannini.

"Don't move" says the technician. Don't move? Thanks for telling me. I was about to break into a lusty tango.

"Don't breathe", says the technician. Don't breathe? Thanks for telling me. My lungs need a break from all that, you know, respiring.

Surgeries are done through an incision the size of a paper cut. The hearing impaired can have implants so they too can be bothered by the person next to them talking loudly on their cell. You'd think that someone could invent an effective mammogram machine that wouldn't be so painful.

Perhaps if men had to submit their testicles to the same procedure, patents for a kinder, gentler machine would be pending.

Am I Blue?

2010-07-04T11:14:00.000-07:00

I was chatting with a neighbor recently in front of her apartment when another local passed. I've seen the woman many times and we usually smile or nod a greeting. That's the extent of our connection. Civility.

"She's bipolar, you know, " said my neighbor. No, I don't know, nor do I want to know the mental diagnoses of minor acquaintances. And while we're on the subject, how do you know? If you're her shrink, then shame on you for blabbing. If you're just a nosy neighbor then shame on you for gossiping about a very personal matter.

A friend was going through a rough patch and feeling down because of it. The group solution was to deem her condition "depression" and prescribe Prozac or whatever the drug du jour is.

Jeez, can't a person just be plain old sad anymore? You have to admit that sometimes life really sucks and feeling blue is the proper emotion. Trashy novels and mega-doses of Rocky Road will eventually bring a person around. Want to see someone far worse than you, just for a lift? Try watching daytime TV and be thankful you've not yet reached the low point of moaning to a national audience.

Remember freshman year when we took Psych 101? We felt utterly qualified to analyse family, friends and our pet cocker spaniel. Fast forward to 2010. Watching Dr. Phil is like Psych 101 without the term paper and exams. It hardly makes us qualified to slap a mentally dysfunctional label on anyone.

Another Uh-Oh Moment

2010-06-27T15:01:00.000-07:00

Think of all the times in your life you realized you made the wrong decision or just didn't think things through. Well, maybe not all of them or we'll be here a while. Just pick a few juicy ones so we can move on.

If we're lucky, those uh-oh moments morph into ah-ha ones and a growth experience ensues. This phenomenon seems to happen frequently to Oprah viewers. The rest of us mortals struggle with the "what was I thinking?" inner monologue. My own recent bout of angst would have put Hamlet to shame.

Good thing we come out the other end with a litany of resolutions. Kind of like New Years Eve but without the champagne and confetti. We promise to keep our own counsel, to be prepared, to look at all sides. But like most resolutions these, too, are fleeting and long forgotten until we find ourselves in another predicament. Then it's back to square one and, like Yogi Berra said, it's deja vu all over again.

My favorite uh-oh moment happened to a matador in Mexico recently. He was in the ring with a charging bull when he -- the matador, not the bull -- realized that he really wasn't cut out for this line of work and ran out of the arena to the jeers of bullfight fans. No word on his change of career but if you're in Mexico City come tax time, I'd probably avoid the CPA in the tight sequined pants. Ole, amigo, ole!

How Many Times To Say 'I Do'?

2010-06-19T12:06:00.000-07:00

If I were looking for a husband, I'd consider someone who'd been married once before -- maybe even twice. Making a marriage work isn't always easy and sometimes we make mistakes the first time 'round.

Divorce doesn't carry the stigma it once did, but is there -- or should there be -- a limit to how many times a person can get married? Maybe we could implement a quota system? We each get maximum 3 and if you can't make them work --- well, you probably have more problems than leaving your soiled boxers on the bedroom floor. When the guy tells you he's been married 3-plus times aren't you even a little bit curious why?

It's not just men, either. I read that Elizabeth Taylor might wed again. Granted, I read it in one of the tabloid rags in the dentist's office so feel free to question the veracity. She has been married at least 6 times though. Part of the appeal is the idea of rubbing elbows -- well, more than elbows -- with a celebrity. But in the real world, would a guy be interested in a woman with so much mileage on her marriage odometer?

The quota system would put the kibosh on anyone hording husbands or wives. Think of all the people looking for Mr. or Ms. Right. The system would help spread the love -- and more importantly, put an end to those godawful bachelor/bachelorette reality shows.

When I'm 64...

2010-06-12T14:03:00.000-07:00

I've always thought the Beatles "When I'm 64" was a pleasant novelty piece. Not one of their best but certainly fun listening. I was probably 24 when I first heard it and paid little attention to the lyrics then or the numerous times I've heard them since.

Next week I actually turn 64 and the words I once parroted have now become the deep, ponderous quandaries of my life. Will you still need me? Will you still feed me?

Some people stuff themselves with chocolate cake, break out the champagne or bungee jump on their birthday. I opt for the dark side and use it as a reason to analyze my life over the past year. What did I accomplish? What did I learn? And it really wouldn't be a thorough examination without the penetrating question of whether or not I'm happy. Psychoanalysis covers these topics over years of therapy. I try to wrap it up in a few mentally and emotionally frenzied days.

I amble down memory lane, thankful I'm not yet shuffling down it. I pray that any future decrepitude not include a walker with day-glow tennis balls. Wrinkles? Well I'm far from being mistaken for Keith Richards, but I'd agree to a nip/tuck around those sagging jowls. Gravity and my jowls are in constant battle and the "Big G" is proving victorious.

One year closer to becoming an official alter kaker -- cheaper bus rides, movie tickets and, hurrah, senior discounts at Ross.

Happy Birthday to moi!

Birthday Greetings -- From Your ATM

2010-06-05T17:50:00.000-07:00

I stopped at the ATM this morning to perform the utterly mechanical task of pressing just the right buttons in just the right order. My reward? A feeling of affluence, albeit temporary, knowing there are a few $20s in my pocket.

I have performed this task hundreds of times. Different ATMs. Same procedure. I don't usually pay close attention to the screens since I don't need a home equity loan nor do I care to transfer any balances. I see the ads but ignore them.

But this morning was different. That home equity/balance transfer screen that I regularly pooh pooh was absent. Instead, the ATM wished me a happy birthday. Well, that got my attention!

I'll admit to cracking a wee smile. I'll also admit to being a tad startled. How do I actually feel about my first birthday greeting of the year coming from an ATM? Do I tell friends who send belated greetings that they've been one-upped by a cash machine! When we talk about personal computers, that isn't what we have in mind

At least it was just a visual. What if the machine had actually said happy birthday? Whoa! Shades of Dave and Hal from "2001, A Space Odyssey".

What Kid Wears a Cloak?

2010-05-30T14:02:00.000-07:00

In the 1950's we didn't have lockers in the corridor -- at least not at my elementary school. We kept our things in the cloakroom.

The cloakroom? Sounds positively Dickensian. Besides, what first grader wears a cloak? Granted, parkaroom doesn't have the same pizazz but it's certainly more accurate.

Plus, it wasn't really a room -- at least not in my elementary school. There were hooks for our jackets and eye-level shelves for storing our lunchboxes.

Ah, the lunchbox -- the original status symbol for our generation. That cheap metal sandwich container, complete with thermos, spoke volumes about how cool you were, even at six years old.

Dale Evans, Queen of the Cowboys, smiled back at me from my favorite lunchbox. As I ate my baloney on Wonder Bread sandwich, I'd imagine riding off into the sunset on Buttermilk. That's her horse, for those of you using your brain cells for something more productive like finding a cure for cancer.

Now I tote my lunch in an eco-friendly insulated zip-up bag. No pictures. No fun.

So who would adorn my grown-up lunchbox? Probably Mother Theresa. Having her smile back at me would be a reminder to question what I'm doing with my life.

Bipedal Bumper Cars

2010-05-23T12:05:00.000-07:00

Walking in downtown San Francisco is like tackling an obstacle course. There are trucks unloading, delivery people, taxis, construction paraphernalia, trash and various other things to watch out for -- normal fare in any city. Now there's the added obstacle of my fellow walkers.

Thanks to technology we walk with eyes cast downward. We're shuffling our music, tweeting that we literally bumped into someone, checking our e-mail and programming our phones. We bob. We weave. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Oops! Sorry! We're all playing a game of bipedal bumper cars.

I have become a defensive walker. My pivoting techniques put Heidi Klum to shame. I can veer left and right on the proverbial dime.

But sometimes I feel like Clint Eastwood in one of his classic westerns. I see the guy coming towards me completely absorbed by his phone. My course is fixed. Will he look up in time to avoid a collision?

Hey, I walk the same route every day. Ya gotta keep it interesting!

Fiber on the Side, Please

2010-05-16T14:14:00.000-07:00

Nutritionally speaking, we tend to go through fads. Low-fat and fat-free were sent from marketing heaven to make us believe we could eat an entire package of Mallomars without gaining an ounce. And so we gorged, wondering why our jeans were getting snug. Realization! Fat is not the enemy but the very giver of flavor to most foods. Take out the fat, you take out the flavor. Cardboard Mallomars just don't satisfy that chocolate craving. Solution? Up the sugar levels. Still no/low-fat but we're zoning in and out of near diabetic comas.

Now the dietary buzz word is "fiber". Indeed, a well functioning intestinal tract is something to strive for. Leafy greens and whole grains should be part of a well-balanced diet. Got it!

But does it have to be in everything? The latest advertising for a popular brand of sugar packets boasted its fiber content. Sugar and fiber in the same little envelope? While it may be some kind of nutritional milestone, it's difficult to wrap my head around the concept.

What do you think of when I say "sugar"? Sweetness, candy, sugar plum fairies, and all that's enjoyable, comforting and tasty. Fiber -- well, there's simply no joy in fiber. It's one of those you-know-you-should-eat-it-so-you-do foods. Mom forced you to eat your vegetables. She probably never made you eat sugar.

Two lumps of sugar, please. I'll take my fiber on the side.

Mother's Day Guilt

2010-05-09T12:43:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day is a boom for brunch-serving restaurants, florists that deliver nationwide and, of course, all things Hallmark. It's also a day potentially riddled with guilt -- yours. Just forget to call and you'll experience ice that could sink the Titanic.

She says she understands but she's hurt. After all, she gave birth to you and it was long and painful. My mom couldn't remember the pope's name and number but she told the tale of labor and delivery as though it happened yesterday. She was prone to exaggeration and went for maximum effect in her stories so my newborn head grew bigger with every telling -- kind of like fishermen who talk about the one that got away.

Mother was the Empress of Guilt. When we misbehaved she'd pray for us. I mean down on her knees seriously fingering the rosary beads. The prayers were soft, but the dedication -- please help my disobedient children or something in that vein -- was loud enough for all to hear.

She was the Mistress of the Heavy Sigh. Hers were Tony award winning sighs that oozed serious disappointment. In a contest between Olivier, any of the Redgraves and my mom -- well, it simply wouldn't be a contest.

S P A C E !

2010-05-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

Americans have a strong sense of personal space. There's plenty of room for all of us in this vast country so we like to spread out whenever possible. It's part of our history. Those 19th century pioneers settled the west because the prairies gave them the elbow room they craved.

That need for space is part of our cultural DNA. Notice the look on people's faces when they're jammed into a subway car or sitting bumper to bumper on the freeway. Watch a person take a step backward if someone stands too close during a conversation. And then there's that undefined distance we keep while waiting our turn at the ATM. We seem to innately know just how far that gap should be so as not to intrude on the banking privacy of another.

So why doesn't this sense of space carry over to the supermarket? I have shopping cart bruises on my ankles inflicted by people who feel their progress down the cereal aisle is a NASCAR event. Apparently, hunting for bargains on canned tuna can't be done while steering a grocery cart. So much for multi-tasking.

At the check out counter we covet our turn on the conveyor belt. It signals that the burden of grocery shopping is nearly at an end. But, may I remind you -- yes, you, the one bumping my butt with your grocery cart -- that I can only move as fast as the person in front of me. Unfortunately, that person has just realized he forgot an item, misplaced his discount grocery card and abandoned his children in the cookie aisle. So you -- yes, you, the one bumping my butt with your grocery cart -- should probably move to another lane where you can find a new butt to bump in a futile attempt to rush the process.

The guy in front of me is going nowhere soon -- so let me give him some space.

We Think It's a Whale....

2010-04-25T11:45:00.000-07:00

Spring is whale migration season along the West Coast. Unfortunately as they move northward to feed in Alaska, some lose their innate GPS and mistakenly hang a right hand turn into the San Francisco Bay. While we humans love to watch them, the creatures are separated from the pod and undoubtedly terrified by the multitude of hovering news helicopters. Film at eleven.

Before you think you're logged into a PBS nature blog let me clarify that my point is not about the dead whale in the Bay last week. My point is about the news coverage that surrounded it.

It was a slow news day -- just after the European airspace opened and just before SEC employees got caught conducting, shall we say, non-governmental business. The media was hungry for just about anything so finding a dead whale -- and a baby one at that -- was 6 o'clock news pay dirt.

There were numerous Earth Day tie-ins since the whale's belly was filled with various plastics. Marine biologists spoke to reporters. The Coast Guard was interviewed about towing the carcass away. Par for the course for local news.

But my favorite bit of questionable journalism was when a reporter said the Coast Guard had found what was "believed to be" a gray whale. Believed to be?! I'm no animal expert, but I think if I found a dead mammal the size of Rhode Island floating in the water, I just might conclude that the critter was indeed a whale.

Come on media -- stick your neck out, make a statement, stop mincing around. What's next? The alleged whale?

No Neckties for the Docs?

2010-04-18T11:46:00.000-07:00

You've probably heard news reports about people who develop infections as patients in the hospital. Poorly sterilized utensils you might think. Or the staff not properly washing their hands. Or maybe there really is a fly in your soup.

All possibilities, but we've overlooked something rather obvious --- the doctor's necktie. It doesn't make you sick because it's in bad taste, a hideous color or loud enough to wake the surgical patients. It makes you sick because it could be teeming with bacteria. A veritable Manhattan of germs held in place by a Windsor knot.

Imagine where that tie has been all day -- or maybe you'd rather not. The Doc has been examining patients with a variety of ailments and diseases. And now it's your turn to watch that silk petri dish dangling over your sick bed.

It's not just neckties. According to an AMA study, there is some evidence that other clothing items and accessories spread disease as well. The group is developing dress code policies to minimize the problem, but they'll have to catch up with medicos in the UK. They've had a dress code since 2007 that requires medical personnel to be jewelry and clothing free below the elbows.

So if your doctor isn't wearing a tie next time you see him, remember that he's not just getting a head start on casual Friday.

Isn't a Gift Always Free?

2010-04-11T12:21:00.000-07:00

"Take a test drive and receive a free gift", read the ad. "Try our product for 30 days and we'll give you a free gift", barked the infomercial. "Thanks for stopping by our kiosk," said the sales associate. "Here's your free gift."

I am an admitted word maven. I love language -- when it's used correctly. When it's not, my built-in annoyance meter goes into overdrive -- and that's been happening frequently of late.

Expressions like "join together" and "continue on" make my jaw clench. They're redundant, repetitive and say the same thing. Is there any other way to join but together? If we don't continue on aren't we going back?

These and numerous others push me to the edge. But "free gift" leaves me teetering on the brink. The very nature of a gift is free to those who receive it. Did the Magi tell Joseph and Mary they brought a free gift of myrrh for the kid? Did the Trojans say anything about that giant gift horse being free. And think of Santa Claus. He's the master of gifts, but have you ever heard any Christmas carol mention free ones.

Unfortunately, the "free gift" concept has become a solid part of the Madison Avenue lexicon. Perhaps they're just trying to help us distinguish between all those pesky gifts we have to pay for.

Easter: Symbolism or Sugar?

2010-04-03T15:52:00.000-07:00

Easter Sunday. The holiest of days in the Catholic faith. There's the resurrection of Christ and all that it symbolizes for the Church. But, as kids, we celebrated for different reasons.

Lent was over -- all 40 long days of it -- and we could go back to eating candy. I'm sure if someone did a survey of the number one thing Catholic kids gave up for Lent it would be candy. No tormenting siblings or sassing parents would probably be runners-up. Hey, we were just kids -- not exactly up to the task of ending world hunger!

For us Easter was all about the candy: jelly beans, chocolate bunnies, marshmallow chicks, chocolate eggs -- all served in one pastel basket. A sugar bonanza on a par with Halloween.

And we actually believed that the treats were delivered by a giant, mutant rabbit who hippity-hopped his way into our living room while we slept. What gullible little tykes we were.

Today I eliminate the middle man -- er -- rabbit. And I don't really care about the cheap "made in China" basket. I just roll that shopping cart down the candy aisle at my local supermarket and fill 'er up.

"The Last Supper" Menu

2010-03-27T12:00:00.000-07:00

Nearly everyone is familiar with Leonardo's acclaimed "Last Supper". It ranks right up there with "The Mona Lisa" as one of the more famous works of art. Scholars have long pondered the religious themes. Art historians have studied the numerous lesser versions.

Now there's a group of obesity researchers in England who are looking at the paintings from a completely different angle. Food -- specifically the amount of it on the table in the various renderings. Researchers studied 52 versions and noted that the more recent ones depict about 70% more food, thus reflecting periods of affluence and abundance in a culture.

Perhaps we need to put the kibosh on further 21st century versions. The way Americans eat, we could soon see fast food wrappers, Chinese take-out containers, or super-sized cola drinks at that holy repast. Of course, if the artist is into a more healthy diet, they'd opt for bran muffins, edamame and tofu.

Pomegranates -- With Chocolate, Please

2010-03-20T12:10:00.000-07:00

Pomegranates -- currently high on the list of wonder foods. Tauted as a source of anti-oxidants and vitamins. Could be, but has anyone calculated the time it takes to pry those little berries from their comb. Plus you have to eat a lot of them to feel satisfied. I'm not sure it's worth it.

Compare it to crab. The shell cracking. The separation of the meat from the innards. Unbelievably messy. Time consuming. But what a payoff!

But let's not blame the innocent pomegranate. We've all fallen for the hype that accompanies the cult of omega-3s, fiber, lo-fat, non-fat and whatever is the diet du jour. One of the TV docs recommends the fruit -- et voila -- pomegranate jam, juice, ice cream, chips are available at your corner grocer.

I admit to falling -- hard. My latest sortie into the world of pomegranates was a total impulse. The siren song of dark chocolate covered pomegranate seeds wafted to check-out lane number 7 where I waited to unload my shopping cart.

Chocolate -- ah, food of the gods! I'll eat almost anything covered with it. Here before me, in one small package, was the promise of chocolate and nutrition -- a combination made in heaven. The very idea of chocolate made me weak. If I were a captured government agent, all the enemy would have to do is give me chocolate and I'd blab atomic formulas in a New York minute.

I caved. The noshing began on my way to the car. Nearly half the package was gone before I got home -- and I don't live that far from the market. I never did read the label to find out the nutritional benefits. Nutrition be damned! Chocolate made my world go 'round.

Phoning In Your Sins

2010-03-14T11:02:00.000-07:00

In elementary school, the nuns taught us how to confess our sins. The whole procedure was a bit daunting for a 7 year old. At that age, you really had to dig deep for sins. When I refused to eat broccoli was I disrespecting my mother or just being stubborn? Both were sins according to the nun's list of possibilities so it was just a matter of which commandment I chose to violate. Of course, locating sins became easier the older I got but the actual confession part remained as daunting as ever.

In case you don't know about confession here's how it goes. First you examine your conscience. The easiest way is by commandment. Start with the first one and mentally scroll through the other nine. That should give you a list of no-nos to tell the priest for which he will forgive you, pending your saying a few prayers.

It's all supposed to be anonymous but I always felt the priest could see through the mesh screen that separated us and, after 8 years of elementary school, I was sure he recognized my voice. I was afraid he'd tell my parents what a sinner I was, but it's all confidential even the mortal -- or "you did what!" -- sins. Ah, the trauma of Catholic school.

According to NPR, the French have modernized the confessional process by inventing a, well, phone line to the Lord. Just dial the number, press trois, et voila, you're asked to spill your sinful guts.

Do you think there'll be an app for that on my smart phone?

Rise & Shine -- If You Feel Like It

2010-02-28T19:04:00.001-08:00

I had a sneak preview of retirement recently and I have to say I can't wait for the real thing. Early in my six week lay off from work, I found it surprisingly easy to fall into a lack of routine. I'm neither a sluggard nor a slacker. I've been working since I was 16 -- nearly 50 years. I'm no math whiz but I estimate that my alarm clock has gone off approximately 10,000 mornings.

Knowing that you can wake up and get up when you feel like it is one of my definitions of heaven. (Another is unlimited snacking on Rocky Road with no consequences on the poundage front, but we'll save that for another time. ) You can roll over, doze a bit, breathe deeply, ponder your day, examine your life, plan breakfast, outline that novel you hope to write. You set your schedule and it doesn't include reporting to an office by 8:30.

Now I'm back to the routine of work (and regular pay checks). The alarm clock? Well, make the count 10,001 mornings.

Microscopic Type; Macroscopic Fees

2010-02-20T13:40:00.000-08:00

Let me apologize in advance for any typos in this piece. It's my eyes. They're blurred, bloodshot and bulging from trying to read the Customer Agreement pamphlet sent by my credit card company.

As you know, the rules change next week and the companies want to make sure we understand exactly how they're going to gouge us with new fees.

The opening paragraph -- the shortest in the entire piece -- manages to squeeze out a sliver of warmth with a "thank you for choosing our card". After those skimpy three lines -- jeez, we wouldn't want you to gush -- it's down to business. You, the lowly card holder can do this. We, the masters of your financial domain can and will do that.

I skimmed it. I scanned it. But who is actually going to read an entire 17-panel brochure printed in microscopic font? Not many of us and the credit card company knows that. They've covered their behinds in those 17 panels and the important information we, the consumer, need to know could well be in one of the panels we never actually read.

Cash, anyone?

The Bling You Don't See

2010-02-10T10:29:00.000-08:00

Bling -- we've been adorning ourselves with it for centuries. It's fun to sparkle and shine. The right amount looks glamorous. Too much makes you glitter like a disco ball.

Earrings, rings, chains, bracelets, broaches -- highly visible bling, bling, bling. But some women are wearing unseen bling --- in their genital area.

It seems that a TV star, famous for whispering to ghosts, mentioned on a talk show that she sports vaginal bling. She started doing so after a bad break up at the suggestion of a friend. She described it as "vagazzling" and recommends it as a painless, harmless way to lift your spirits.

Vagazzling -- there's a new word for you Urban Dictionary.com folks -- involves applying a small gem or two or three to your vajayjay. Note: a glue gun is not recommended.

The hidden bling could be a pleasant surprise for a lover, but everything in moderation. You don't want to look like a runway at LAX.