*“I've been cheated
Been mistreated…”
When I hear the term ‘roid, my first thought is hemorrhoids. I’m at THAT age, you know. When the term is applied to steroids, it is usually in the context of treatment for some serious ailment afflicting a friend or acquaintance.
Now when I think of ‘roids, I’ll simply think: A-Rod. Or A-Roid.
*“I've been made blue
I've been lied to…”
The “truth” is out: Alex Rodriguez, New York Yankee, likely Hall of Fame baseball player and the highest paid athlete in his sport, used steroids while playing for Texas from 2001-2003.
Or so he says.
Signing the biggest contract at that time, A-Rod says he felt pressure to perform and took a few things – some of which you can buy at GNC, he claims – to enhance his performance. “I wanted to prove to everyone that I was worth being one of the greatest players of all time.” Now he is “deeply sorry and regretful,” he tells us. “I’m sorry for that time and sorry to my fans,” he says. I don’t need any of that, he claims.
And why should we believe him? Was it really only 2001-2003 that he used these substances? Is he sorry he used performance-enhancing drugs? Or is he sorry he was outed by Sports Illustrated? Sorry for the act, sorry he got caught, or sorry he lied about the whole thing?
He was “stupid and naïve,” he says, not knowing what he was using. Why would a world class athlete whose livelihood depends on the health of his body take something he knew nothing about? Does that make any sense? He stopped using the pills, injectables in 2003 following an injury. So we are now to believe that he stopped in 2003. And signing the biggest contract ever with the New York Yankees in 2004, where the pressure to perform is immeasurably greater than in Texas, where he formerly played, didn’t make him feel that he had to enhance his performance by taking just a little something extra?
Maybe he should have. He certainly didn’t come through in the clutch in any post-season with New York.
While Barry Bonds faces jail if convicted of lying to federal authorities, while Mark McGwire is permanently ensconced in the Hall of Shame, while Roger Clemens goes before Congress and fiercely defends himself, we are supposed to feel better that at least Alex Rodriguez is a stand-up guy. He admitted steroid use and that he lied.
Kind of.
With this behavior – taking illegal, banned substances and then lying about them until he was caught – what message are we sending to society and especially to young athletes and kids in general? That it is OK to do something you know is either wrong or illegal and then lie about it as long as you later admit your guilt and say you want to put it all behind you?
A-Rod followed up his first interview with a press conference at the Yankees’ spring training complex. Here he provided more details, mostly along the order of “the dog ate my homework,” only for A-Rod it was the story of how his unnamed cousin – surely the stars of this drug-related “Dumb and Dumber” – injected him for three years with something available OTC in the Dominican Republic (it turns out – schock! that the substance was not available in the DR OTC, by the way). He wasn’t sure they were using it right or even if he realized any benefit from using the substance, but he continued getting shots from My Cousin Vinny for three years.
Why should we believe Alex Rodriguez now? Unless he pledges to take drug tests randomly and make the results public each time so we know he’s clean. Meanwhile, whatever A-Rod allegedly took is illegal. Was it banned at the time? Well, it was illegal, and shouldn’t that be enough?
Why do we care if athletes want to abuse their bodies? After all, isn’t their intention to perform better so their team can win and they can become champions? They are willing to risk it all in the long term for short term results. Isn’t that their prerogative? If so, why does it bother us?
Because they cheat. Because they lie. And because, as a society, we feel let down. Our standards are falling. People can cheat and lie, later admit it and we are supposed to forgive them for the transgressions because they finally spoke the truth.
Unfortunately, I can’t be so forgiving. But what I can do, from now on, is never believe anyone who denies doing something wrong, says he is sorry he did something wrong and that he/she will never do it again. I won’t believe anyone from now on.
*“I've been made blue
I've been lied to…”
When A-Rod took his performance-enhancing drugs and lied about it and then admitted it, he took away my inherent belief in the good of people. Now I feel stupid and naïve. And isn’t that a shame?
*Linda Ronstadt – “When Will I Be Loved?”
Monday, February 23, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Going Bananas - January, 2009
I believe that deep down we are all seeking perfection in something. The perfect date. The perfect mate. The perfect weather, the perfect haircut. Remember when Barbara Walters interviewed Monica Lewinsky and all people talked about afterwards was her perfect lipstick? There’s a nail salon near me called ”Perfection Nails.” All those things would be great. And as a perfectionist myself – typos in these essays notwithstanding – I am seeking something more: The perfect banana.
Now don’t start getting all Freudian on me, because this quest is about the fruit and nothing but the fruit, so help me God. And if you chose to read beyond this point, good for you, because this is an essay about the perfect banana. After all, bananas in concept are practically perfect. They contain potassium, which allegedly provides health benefits. If you get cramps in your legs, eat more bananas. They don’t have many calories, and they are neatly wrapped and portable, so you can grab one and go (I keep the plastic bags from the newspaper so I can toss in the peels). Just don’t abuse them in the transit mode or you’ll be that much further from perfection by adding bumps and bruises. You can eat them plain, sans any accoutrements, use them on cereal or as the centerpiece of a banana split.
I had a perfect banana once at a video shoot in Princeton. Even as I ate it, I knew. I knew it would be nearly impossible to find another banana so perfect. It was long and firm, perfectly shaped and completely devoid of brown spots. I want my banana ripe enough to be able to peel it without any trouble, but if it is too easy, it is probably too ripe. I don’t want the peel green, but if it has any number of brown spots, it’s not my kind of banana. That doesn’t mean it is bad or that I won’t eat it, just that it is not perfect. I’m not a banana bread person, so I’m not going to save brown bananas for that purpose. I don’t want to eat banana cream pie or banana bread or anything banana-flavored. Just the banana and nothing but the banana.
My quest for perfection takes me to the produce department of virtually any supermarket. Perfection might just be lurking at the end of the aisle, right? Wrong, if I seek it at Shop-Rite, otherwise known as the cultural center of my town (where your chances of running into someone you know increase exponentially depending on how bad you look that day). Shop-Rite serves up its bananas in plastic bags. The poor bananas, unable to breathe, break out into a warm sweat. As I liberate them from this plastic prison, in my mind I hear the song “Born Free” playing. When I announced I was retiring and people asked me what I planned to do with all that free time, I wanted to say that I planned to hang out in the produce section and free all the bananas from their slimy state. I believe that no good can come from the banana-plastic relationship.
Another reason NOT to buy bananas encased in plastic bags is that I live alone. I don’t want to buy a bunch of bananas, all in the same stage of banana life. I can’t eat that many, and the rest will rot. What I want – and what I get because I dare to defy the rules by opening the bags – is two green bananas and two ripe bananas. You can’t get two different-aged bananas in a single bunch, and from a slimy bunch, at that. Bagged bananas are far from my quest for perfection, so my search continues.
Stop and Shop is a better banana environment. The bananas there not only are born free, but they seem to roam freely through the store. You can find them in the produce aisle, on stands near the registers and the Nilla wafers and hanging in small bunches in various aisles in the store. The only problem there is quantity. If I only want two, sometimes I can’t hang the bunch back on the hook after making my selection. But I notice they seem to be less brown and more firm, key factors in my quest.
I don’t want to pursue perfection through every store, though I will feel triumphant if and when I find the perfect banana. I think it was what Bono had in mind when he and U2 wrote “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” If I find a perfect banana someday, somewhere, my life will have purpose. Of course, once I eat the perfect banana, the quest begins anew.
Now don’t start getting all Freudian on me, because this quest is about the fruit and nothing but the fruit, so help me God. And if you chose to read beyond this point, good for you, because this is an essay about the perfect banana. After all, bananas in concept are practically perfect. They contain potassium, which allegedly provides health benefits. If you get cramps in your legs, eat more bananas. They don’t have many calories, and they are neatly wrapped and portable, so you can grab one and go (I keep the plastic bags from the newspaper so I can toss in the peels). Just don’t abuse them in the transit mode or you’ll be that much further from perfection by adding bumps and bruises. You can eat them plain, sans any accoutrements, use them on cereal or as the centerpiece of a banana split.
I had a perfect banana once at a video shoot in Princeton. Even as I ate it, I knew. I knew it would be nearly impossible to find another banana so perfect. It was long and firm, perfectly shaped and completely devoid of brown spots. I want my banana ripe enough to be able to peel it without any trouble, but if it is too easy, it is probably too ripe. I don’t want the peel green, but if it has any number of brown spots, it’s not my kind of banana. That doesn’t mean it is bad or that I won’t eat it, just that it is not perfect. I’m not a banana bread person, so I’m not going to save brown bananas for that purpose. I don’t want to eat banana cream pie or banana bread or anything banana-flavored. Just the banana and nothing but the banana.
My quest for perfection takes me to the produce department of virtually any supermarket. Perfection might just be lurking at the end of the aisle, right? Wrong, if I seek it at Shop-Rite, otherwise known as the cultural center of my town (where your chances of running into someone you know increase exponentially depending on how bad you look that day). Shop-Rite serves up its bananas in plastic bags. The poor bananas, unable to breathe, break out into a warm sweat. As I liberate them from this plastic prison, in my mind I hear the song “Born Free” playing. When I announced I was retiring and people asked me what I planned to do with all that free time, I wanted to say that I planned to hang out in the produce section and free all the bananas from their slimy state. I believe that no good can come from the banana-plastic relationship.
Another reason NOT to buy bananas encased in plastic bags is that I live alone. I don’t want to buy a bunch of bananas, all in the same stage of banana life. I can’t eat that many, and the rest will rot. What I want – and what I get because I dare to defy the rules by opening the bags – is two green bananas and two ripe bananas. You can’t get two different-aged bananas in a single bunch, and from a slimy bunch, at that. Bagged bananas are far from my quest for perfection, so my search continues.
Stop and Shop is a better banana environment. The bananas there not only are born free, but they seem to roam freely through the store. You can find them in the produce aisle, on stands near the registers and the Nilla wafers and hanging in small bunches in various aisles in the store. The only problem there is quantity. If I only want two, sometimes I can’t hang the bunch back on the hook after making my selection. But I notice they seem to be less brown and more firm, key factors in my quest.
I don’t want to pursue perfection through every store, though I will feel triumphant if and when I find the perfect banana. I think it was what Bono had in mind when he and U2 wrote “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” If I find a perfect banana someday, somewhere, my life will have purpose. Of course, once I eat the perfect banana, the quest begins anew.
What's On? - February, 2008
“What are you watching?” my favorite sister inquired one night.
“I’m switching back and forth between the Soul Train Music Awards, a salute to George Gershwin on PBS and a Yankee game,” I replied.
Yes, my taste in television is more than a little eclectic. At any given time I’m as likely to be watching a documentary on the Kennedy assassination as “Make Me a Supermodel.” When I hear people say, “There’s nothing on,” I always think. “Not for me.” If there is a show about building a cruise ship, a basketball game (I watched five last Sunday) or a new episode of “Men in Trees,” I’m set.
So for me, there is a lot on television, but it is getting harder to figure out what is on where. While there are far more channels, the choice of programming has become stranger and more disconnected from the original intent of the network broadcasting it.
Take, for instance, the Biography Channel, where you can watch four hours a day of “Murder, She Wrote” with only an occasional interruption for a bio of an important historical figure – say, Bruce Willis. Is this the Angela Lansbury Channel? (By the way, if you really can’t get enough of “Murder, She Wrote,” you can also catch it on the Hallmark Channel. There must be some real die-hard Angela Lansbury fans out there for this show to air so often each day.)
My impression of the venerable National Geographic magazine, the august, yellow-rimmed journal showing outstanding photography of far-flung locations and people, doesn’t exactly match the National Geographic Channel. Instead, in addition to actual programs about exotic locations, we are treated to “Outlaw Bikers – Hell’s Angels,” “Bounty Hunters” and a variety of programs about prisons.
Of course, MTV years ago stopped showing music except on off-hours, instead presenting a range of so-called reality shows where an entire subculture of “stars” is established and recycled through “Real World,” “Road Rules,” and the “Real World-Road Rules Challenge.” I can’t help but wonder: Is being a participant on a reality TV show now a bona fide profession? Some of these people either have very understanding employers with generous sabbatical policies or they get paid to wander from show to show, competing in a series of odd physical challenges that have nothing to do with “Music TV.”
MTV isn’t the only confusing channel. The Country Music Channel’s “Trick My Truck” takes a page from MTV’s “Pimp My Ride,” in performing extreme makeovers on vehicles. And what does this have to do with country music, I wonder. No more than VH1’s “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew” or the same network’s “Celebrity Fit Club,” which features has-beens and people you never heard of trying to lose weight and regain whatever show biz career they apparently once had.
Headline News no longer dishes out news headlines, instead featuring a bunch of programs that blur the concept of news. The Discovery Channel has “Dirty Jobs,” where poor host Mike Rowe (featured in a series of TYLENOL commercials over the years) is asked to take on the kind of jobs you can’t imagine someone else doing but are glad they’re not your job. Try sweeping up at a zoo, making pots out of cow pies or making roof shingles for a living. This is Discovery?
The Travel Channel sometimes takes me to exotic locations and on beautiful cruise ships. But the same channel can spend a day televising a bunch of men in a room playing poker. I guess the tie-in is that the players had to travel to get there.
Even A&E – the Arts and Entertainment channel – no longer bears much resemblance to either art or entertainment. Really, does anyone want to watch “Parking Wars,” a program about people trying to find or fighting over a parking spot? Or how about “Airline,” where in every show someone is bound to miss a connecting flight?
American Movie Classics no longer limits its showings to “Citizen Kane” and movies of that ilk. You can often find a recent comedy with Martin Lawrence when you are really in the mood for a Humphrey Bogart classic.
Some networks have gone the route of changing their names to more closely match the content. Court TV is now “Tru,” which doesn’t make it any more credible to me. Is Tru true? Somehow, I doubt it.
And could someone please tell the Weather Channel that we don’t need to see shows on how weather affected history? I just want to know how much snow we are going to get.
As far as I can tell, only Animal Planet lives up to its name, broadcasting programs that feature animals around the clock – or at least until the infomercials take over in the wee hours.
Thank goodness I have my fallbacks; as long as I can watch anything on Home & Garden, the Food Network or a game (substitute baseball in the non-basketball season), I always have something to watch.
I’m not saying that all of this stuff isn’t interesting to someone, but consider this an advisory: Don’t judge a cable network by its name if you are trying to figure out “what’s on?”
“I’m switching back and forth between the Soul Train Music Awards, a salute to George Gershwin on PBS and a Yankee game,” I replied.
Yes, my taste in television is more than a little eclectic. At any given time I’m as likely to be watching a documentary on the Kennedy assassination as “Make Me a Supermodel.” When I hear people say, “There’s nothing on,” I always think. “Not for me.” If there is a show about building a cruise ship, a basketball game (I watched five last Sunday) or a new episode of “Men in Trees,” I’m set.
So for me, there is a lot on television, but it is getting harder to figure out what is on where. While there are far more channels, the choice of programming has become stranger and more disconnected from the original intent of the network broadcasting it.
Take, for instance, the Biography Channel, where you can watch four hours a day of “Murder, She Wrote” with only an occasional interruption for a bio of an important historical figure – say, Bruce Willis. Is this the Angela Lansbury Channel? (By the way, if you really can’t get enough of “Murder, She Wrote,” you can also catch it on the Hallmark Channel. There must be some real die-hard Angela Lansbury fans out there for this show to air so often each day.)
My impression of the venerable National Geographic magazine, the august, yellow-rimmed journal showing outstanding photography of far-flung locations and people, doesn’t exactly match the National Geographic Channel. Instead, in addition to actual programs about exotic locations, we are treated to “Outlaw Bikers – Hell’s Angels,” “Bounty Hunters” and a variety of programs about prisons.
Of course, MTV years ago stopped showing music except on off-hours, instead presenting a range of so-called reality shows where an entire subculture of “stars” is established and recycled through “Real World,” “Road Rules,” and the “Real World-Road Rules Challenge.” I can’t help but wonder: Is being a participant on a reality TV show now a bona fide profession? Some of these people either have very understanding employers with generous sabbatical policies or they get paid to wander from show to show, competing in a series of odd physical challenges that have nothing to do with “Music TV.”
MTV isn’t the only confusing channel. The Country Music Channel’s “Trick My Truck” takes a page from MTV’s “Pimp My Ride,” in performing extreme makeovers on vehicles. And what does this have to do with country music, I wonder. No more than VH1’s “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew” or the same network’s “Celebrity Fit Club,” which features has-beens and people you never heard of trying to lose weight and regain whatever show biz career they apparently once had.
Headline News no longer dishes out news headlines, instead featuring a bunch of programs that blur the concept of news. The Discovery Channel has “Dirty Jobs,” where poor host Mike Rowe (featured in a series of TYLENOL commercials over the years) is asked to take on the kind of jobs you can’t imagine someone else doing but are glad they’re not your job. Try sweeping up at a zoo, making pots out of cow pies or making roof shingles for a living. This is Discovery?
The Travel Channel sometimes takes me to exotic locations and on beautiful cruise ships. But the same channel can spend a day televising a bunch of men in a room playing poker. I guess the tie-in is that the players had to travel to get there.
Even A&E – the Arts and Entertainment channel – no longer bears much resemblance to either art or entertainment. Really, does anyone want to watch “Parking Wars,” a program about people trying to find or fighting over a parking spot? Or how about “Airline,” where in every show someone is bound to miss a connecting flight?
American Movie Classics no longer limits its showings to “Citizen Kane” and movies of that ilk. You can often find a recent comedy with Martin Lawrence when you are really in the mood for a Humphrey Bogart classic.
Some networks have gone the route of changing their names to more closely match the content. Court TV is now “Tru,” which doesn’t make it any more credible to me. Is Tru true? Somehow, I doubt it.
And could someone please tell the Weather Channel that we don’t need to see shows on how weather affected history? I just want to know how much snow we are going to get.
As far as I can tell, only Animal Planet lives up to its name, broadcasting programs that feature animals around the clock – or at least until the infomercials take over in the wee hours.
Thank goodness I have my fallbacks; as long as I can watch anything on Home & Garden, the Food Network or a game (substitute baseball in the non-basketball season), I always have something to watch.
I’m not saying that all of this stuff isn’t interesting to someone, but consider this an advisory: Don’t judge a cable network by its name if you are trying to figure out “what’s on?”
Water - September, 2007
When you own a house, water is the bane of your existence. You need it where and when you want it. It needs to flow freely through your pipes, but not drip through your faucet. You want it in your sink, but not in your basement. You want it to fill your toilet tank and not cause corrosion and that annoying “the toilet is running” thing where just jiggling the handle really doesn’t solve the problem. You want it coming out cold from the icemaker, but you need to be vigilant for clumps, so make sure you work the thing every day, even when you don’t need ice. You run the dehumidifier in the summer and the humidifier in the winter, just to make sure your world is full of the right amount of moisture at all times.
You want the rain to flow gently into your gutters, not fighting with leaves or, God forbid, freezing on your roof in the winter, backing up into the phenomenon called “ice damming,” where it gets under the roof and freezes, only to melt and drip into your home through your sheetrock. Ah, but I am thinking ahead, aren’t I? And do I hear “gutter helmet” as a birthday gift?
Do I sound like I know far more about this issue than I should? Personal experiences aside, who among us hasn’t had a sump pump issue, water in the basement after a big storm, or a leaky pipe? If you have a pool, your issues are compounded by chemistry. Making it look like the pristine Caribbean doesn’t happen by chance. It’s a delicate balance between chlorine, alkaline and a host of other fatal-if-swallowed chemicals in white containers that confounds, confuses and bankrupts you. My formerly blue water today is pea green, despite the little robot guy sucking the crud off the bottom, and I haven’t even figured out how to heat the pool, no less cure it of this color transformation. So I have poured vats of chlorine into it, hit it with alkalinity rise (I confess I have no idea what that is) and followed all the chemical potions suggested by the pool guys. Apparently you even have to do something to “shock” the pool, which turns out to be adding a bunch of packages of more chemical stuff and not merely having me show up in a bathing suit, which I thought would surely be shocking enough. You have to get the pool closed for the winter and opened in the summer, and the same thing goes for the sprinkler system, which gets serviced twice a year. Let’s face it, if we took paid this much attention to our bodies, we’d all be in better shape.
But a leak doesn’t heal on its own. I can limp around for a while on a sore leg, knowing that eventually I’ll recover from whatever it is that ails me now, but the leak in my kitchen ceiling probably isn’t going to recover as quickly. The likely culprit, the shower above in the master bath, isn’t about to give way, but it also isn’t about to get better on its own. Exploratory surgery seems likely, followed by replacement parts and some cosmetic repairs. The house is only 20, but I guess “house years” apply, because at 20, I sure wasn’t leaking – yet.
So, yes, water is everywhere when you own a home, and, if you own a new home (new for you, but not necessarily new construction), it takes a while until you get to know each other well enough to identify your respective water issues. And, no, that is not a tear in my eye, it’s just a drip coming from…somewhere.
You want the rain to flow gently into your gutters, not fighting with leaves or, God forbid, freezing on your roof in the winter, backing up into the phenomenon called “ice damming,” where it gets under the roof and freezes, only to melt and drip into your home through your sheetrock. Ah, but I am thinking ahead, aren’t I? And do I hear “gutter helmet” as a birthday gift?
Do I sound like I know far more about this issue than I should? Personal experiences aside, who among us hasn’t had a sump pump issue, water in the basement after a big storm, or a leaky pipe? If you have a pool, your issues are compounded by chemistry. Making it look like the pristine Caribbean doesn’t happen by chance. It’s a delicate balance between chlorine, alkaline and a host of other fatal-if-swallowed chemicals in white containers that confounds, confuses and bankrupts you. My formerly blue water today is pea green, despite the little robot guy sucking the crud off the bottom, and I haven’t even figured out how to heat the pool, no less cure it of this color transformation. So I have poured vats of chlorine into it, hit it with alkalinity rise (I confess I have no idea what that is) and followed all the chemical potions suggested by the pool guys. Apparently you even have to do something to “shock” the pool, which turns out to be adding a bunch of packages of more chemical stuff and not merely having me show up in a bathing suit, which I thought would surely be shocking enough. You have to get the pool closed for the winter and opened in the summer, and the same thing goes for the sprinkler system, which gets serviced twice a year. Let’s face it, if we took paid this much attention to our bodies, we’d all be in better shape.
But a leak doesn’t heal on its own. I can limp around for a while on a sore leg, knowing that eventually I’ll recover from whatever it is that ails me now, but the leak in my kitchen ceiling probably isn’t going to recover as quickly. The likely culprit, the shower above in the master bath, isn’t about to give way, but it also isn’t about to get better on its own. Exploratory surgery seems likely, followed by replacement parts and some cosmetic repairs. The house is only 20, but I guess “house years” apply, because at 20, I sure wasn’t leaking – yet.
So, yes, water is everywhere when you own a home, and, if you own a new home (new for you, but not necessarily new construction), it takes a while until you get to know each other well enough to identify your respective water issues. And, no, that is not a tear in my eye, it’s just a drip coming from…somewhere.
My New Job Is Me - January, 2007
A bit of a tease, admittedly, but for those of you hungry for the answer to the question, “Whatever happened to What’s Her Name?” I thought I’d give you an update on retirement, a state to which I encourage you all to aspire.
As you know, I left Johnson & Johnson without a detailed plan, deciding instead to take advantage of my new freedom to pursue all the things I never had time to do. Turns out that more of my time is spent sleeping and moisturizing than I ever thought possible. I’m making up for years of sleep deprivation, trying to get at least 7-8 hours a night. But the moisturizing – I swear – seems like it occupies even more of my time. With separate NEUTROGENA, JOHNSON’S and AVEENO products for my face, feet, hands, lips and legs – including different products for morning and night – I’ve counted at least six different products I currently use, all designed to keep my skin smooth, supple and not looking like the leather jacket in my closet. I think that if I didn’t sleep on flannel sheets, I’d probably slide right out of bed. Really, how do we sell this stuff? I’m not sure if the serums are supposed to be injected, ingested, rinsed off or absorbed. It’s not that I don’t want EVERYONE to say, “You look 10 years younger since you retired,” but who can differentiate between all the different brands and types of products for each part of the body? What happens if I use the foot cream on my hands (don’t tell anyone, but once my feet are finished, I do rub the rest on my hands; after all, what ARE you supposed to do with it?); will the NEUTROGENA or AVEENO police break down my door and haul me off to a moisturizer-free cell somewhere?
I’m working my way toward being “positively ageless,” though with the inclusion of shitake mushrooms in several AVEENO products, I sometimes feel more like I am preparing a salad than caring for my skin. And did I mention that I now exfoliate? I’m not sure why, but the package promises great results and makes me feel guilty for not following the prescribed routine. Please don’t mention any of this to my dentist, or he and the hygienist will insist that with all this time devoted to skin care, surely I can squeeze in a regular session of flossing. But who has the time?
During the few waking hours I have that are not devoted to skin care, I have found the joy of afternoon movies (I highly recommend “The Queen” and “Notes on a Scandal.”). I have visited museums, attended too many Rutgers basketball games to even count and joined Weight Watchers (yet again). I’m signed up for three photography courses and considering a trip to Italy. And believe it or not, I spent my first full day of retirement at the Motor Vehicle Agency, which was only too pleased to accept 10 different forms of identification that promise I am a U.S. citizen and to take a digital picture of my face (pre-moisturizing routine, I am afraid, so I still look 56; on the other hand, the license is good for six years, so hopefully I’ll look 56 then, too).
As you can see, retirement is a full life, and life is good. I hope you have had many occasions over the last month where you have had a good laugh and thought of me. What with all that moisturizing, I haven’t had much time to think about you.
As you know, I left Johnson & Johnson without a detailed plan, deciding instead to take advantage of my new freedom to pursue all the things I never had time to do. Turns out that more of my time is spent sleeping and moisturizing than I ever thought possible. I’m making up for years of sleep deprivation, trying to get at least 7-8 hours a night. But the moisturizing – I swear – seems like it occupies even more of my time. With separate NEUTROGENA, JOHNSON’S and AVEENO products for my face, feet, hands, lips and legs – including different products for morning and night – I’ve counted at least six different products I currently use, all designed to keep my skin smooth, supple and not looking like the leather jacket in my closet. I think that if I didn’t sleep on flannel sheets, I’d probably slide right out of bed. Really, how do we sell this stuff? I’m not sure if the serums are supposed to be injected, ingested, rinsed off or absorbed. It’s not that I don’t want EVERYONE to say, “You look 10 years younger since you retired,” but who can differentiate between all the different brands and types of products for each part of the body? What happens if I use the foot cream on my hands (don’t tell anyone, but once my feet are finished, I do rub the rest on my hands; after all, what ARE you supposed to do with it?); will the NEUTROGENA or AVEENO police break down my door and haul me off to a moisturizer-free cell somewhere?
I’m working my way toward being “positively ageless,” though with the inclusion of shitake mushrooms in several AVEENO products, I sometimes feel more like I am preparing a salad than caring for my skin. And did I mention that I now exfoliate? I’m not sure why, but the package promises great results and makes me feel guilty for not following the prescribed routine. Please don’t mention any of this to my dentist, or he and the hygienist will insist that with all this time devoted to skin care, surely I can squeeze in a regular session of flossing. But who has the time?
During the few waking hours I have that are not devoted to skin care, I have found the joy of afternoon movies (I highly recommend “The Queen” and “Notes on a Scandal.”). I have visited museums, attended too many Rutgers basketball games to even count and joined Weight Watchers (yet again). I’m signed up for three photography courses and considering a trip to Italy. And believe it or not, I spent my first full day of retirement at the Motor Vehicle Agency, which was only too pleased to accept 10 different forms of identification that promise I am a U.S. citizen and to take a digital picture of my face (pre-moisturizing routine, I am afraid, so I still look 56; on the other hand, the license is good for six years, so hopefully I’ll look 56 then, too).
As you can see, retirement is a full life, and life is good. I hope you have had many occasions over the last month where you have had a good laugh and thought of me. What with all that moisturizing, I haven’t had much time to think about you.
The Year in Review - December, 2007
Year One of Retirement, AKA “the rest of my life,” and all is well in the life of Tina. How exactly has it gone, you wonder? Well, instead of the “12 Days of Christmas,” think of this as the “12 Months of Retirement” and you’ll see what I have been doing.
January – Day one of retirement and I realize I don’t have to set the alarm. I wonder how long it will take me to adjust to my new life. Day two – I sleep late. I am adjusted.
February – Lots of time for attending home and away games of my beloved Rutgers women’s basketball team. No snow to speak of, so no taking out the new Nikon for photo sessions in wintry settings. I can stay up late to watch the Oscars and not worry about getting up for work in the morning. Yeah!
March – Trip to Cancun for unofficial niece Amy’s wedding. I don’t look good in a bathing suit, but at least I am getting sun and warm weather. Besides, if you don’t look good in a bathing suit, it is always better to wear one in another country. Really, have you not seen people who should never be naked at beaches outside the U.S.? If the world can tolerate that, then me in a one-piece shouldn’t spark an international incident.
April – People asked me if I planned to travel in my retirement. First Cancun, and now Cleveland. But for a good reason – to see the Rutgers women’s basketball team compete in the Final Four of the NCAA Basketball Tournament. The team lost in the national championship game, but soon gained accolades for its performance on and off the court in the wake of the Imus incident. I’m feeling so proud of what they accomplished.
May – The spring weather finds me on the prowl for new places to take pictures. Taking a couple of photo classes helps get me into the shooting groove again. In between sessions, I have an egg-sized lipoma (fancy word for benign fatty tumor) surgically removed from my left elbow.
June – More photo sessions before putting the camera away temporarily to sell my house. What? I find a great house in town with a bigger lot, more privacy, a pool, spa and sun room, and I decide to put my house on the market. It sells in three days, so I start preparations for the big move.
July – Review every box and item in the house. Recycle, donate, dump and destroy everything not to be moved and pack the rest. Where did all this stuff come from?
August – The Big Move. A new house, a whopping mortgage, and I am still spending like I was employed!
September – The only thing worse than packing is unpacking. Every sentence starts with “Where…” And finding out about the idiosyncrasies of the house, like the dryer that almost caught fire, the shower that leaks into the kitchen below and mastering the light switches is killing me – and my wrists. Doctor says it is carpal tunnel and advises me not to move again. I’ll follow that advice. I spend time going to see favorite nephew Brandon play soccer for the freshman team at Hillsborough High, a simple pleasure I never before had time to enjoy.
October – Cooking classes and photo sessions begin. My birthday is incentive to finish things around the house. Still need painting and cosmetic things done. To the house, that is…
November – Rutgers basketball begins again and I’m headed for the RAC to cheer on my team. More photo sessions, but waiting for decent foliage. In between, I do my first freelance assignment to help a former colleague. After about 10 minutes on the job I remember why I retired, though it was fun to flex the brain again and see some favorite colleagues. And the money will come in handy.
December – Time to shop for the holidays, interrupted by a trip to North Carolina to watch Rutgers lose to Duke in the worst game I’ve ever seen. Weekend redeemed by a visit with BFF and her daughter, who lives there. Why do I feel like there is less time this year to get things done than when I worked? Maybe because Hanukah is so damn early!
Okay, you have now shared my year in review. It has been a great year for me personally. I’ve enjoyed my freedom to spend time with friends, pursue my hobbies, watch Brandon play soccer, take naps and, of course, moisturize. I find that every day is different, and I appreciate each one.
Retirement can be summed up this way: The pay stinks, but you can’t beat the hours. Everyone should be this lucky.
Best wishes for health and happiness in the new year.
January – Day one of retirement and I realize I don’t have to set the alarm. I wonder how long it will take me to adjust to my new life. Day two – I sleep late. I am adjusted.
February – Lots of time for attending home and away games of my beloved Rutgers women’s basketball team. No snow to speak of, so no taking out the new Nikon for photo sessions in wintry settings. I can stay up late to watch the Oscars and not worry about getting up for work in the morning. Yeah!
March – Trip to Cancun for unofficial niece Amy’s wedding. I don’t look good in a bathing suit, but at least I am getting sun and warm weather. Besides, if you don’t look good in a bathing suit, it is always better to wear one in another country. Really, have you not seen people who should never be naked at beaches outside the U.S.? If the world can tolerate that, then me in a one-piece shouldn’t spark an international incident.
April – People asked me if I planned to travel in my retirement. First Cancun, and now Cleveland. But for a good reason – to see the Rutgers women’s basketball team compete in the Final Four of the NCAA Basketball Tournament. The team lost in the national championship game, but soon gained accolades for its performance on and off the court in the wake of the Imus incident. I’m feeling so proud of what they accomplished.
May – The spring weather finds me on the prowl for new places to take pictures. Taking a couple of photo classes helps get me into the shooting groove again. In between sessions, I have an egg-sized lipoma (fancy word for benign fatty tumor) surgically removed from my left elbow.
June – More photo sessions before putting the camera away temporarily to sell my house. What? I find a great house in town with a bigger lot, more privacy, a pool, spa and sun room, and I decide to put my house on the market. It sells in three days, so I start preparations for the big move.
July – Review every box and item in the house. Recycle, donate, dump and destroy everything not to be moved and pack the rest. Where did all this stuff come from?
August – The Big Move. A new house, a whopping mortgage, and I am still spending like I was employed!
September – The only thing worse than packing is unpacking. Every sentence starts with “Where…” And finding out about the idiosyncrasies of the house, like the dryer that almost caught fire, the shower that leaks into the kitchen below and mastering the light switches is killing me – and my wrists. Doctor says it is carpal tunnel and advises me not to move again. I’ll follow that advice. I spend time going to see favorite nephew Brandon play soccer for the freshman team at Hillsborough High, a simple pleasure I never before had time to enjoy.
October – Cooking classes and photo sessions begin. My birthday is incentive to finish things around the house. Still need painting and cosmetic things done. To the house, that is…
November – Rutgers basketball begins again and I’m headed for the RAC to cheer on my team. More photo sessions, but waiting for decent foliage. In between, I do my first freelance assignment to help a former colleague. After about 10 minutes on the job I remember why I retired, though it was fun to flex the brain again and see some favorite colleagues. And the money will come in handy.
December – Time to shop for the holidays, interrupted by a trip to North Carolina to watch Rutgers lose to Duke in the worst game I’ve ever seen. Weekend redeemed by a visit with BFF and her daughter, who lives there. Why do I feel like there is less time this year to get things done than when I worked? Maybe because Hanukah is so damn early!
Okay, you have now shared my year in review. It has been a great year for me personally. I’ve enjoyed my freedom to spend time with friends, pursue my hobbies, watch Brandon play soccer, take naps and, of course, moisturize. I find that every day is different, and I appreciate each one.
Retirement can be summed up this way: The pay stinks, but you can’t beat the hours. Everyone should be this lucky.
Best wishes for health and happiness in the new year.
The Egg-orcism - June, 2008
One night I had an itch on my left arm. When I went to scratch it, I discovered a lump just above my elbow. I don’t pay a lot of attention to my elbows – hell, I hardly ever bother to look at my hair from the back – so I immediately wondered if this was some anatomical thing I had never noticed while slathering skin cream on my elbows during the winter (see, it is all about moisturizing, isn’t it?). So I did what anyone else would do: I felt the right elbow, but found no similar protuberance.
Next, I did the logical thing, I checked with a professional: I called my sister, who, armed with a medical guide for parents, now fancies herself a medical consultant. Dermatology is my specialty, she explained, recommending that I go to the doctor. (“Hang up this phone right now and call the doctor,” is actually how she put it.)
Parenthetically speaking, one of the best things about retirement is that when the doctor’s office says, “Can you come tomorrow at 11:15?” I don’t have to say, “No, but I have an opening the day after Thanksgiving. What’s another six months anyway?”
So off I went to deal with the lump.
I showed my BFF (best friend forever) the lump. “It’s smaller than I thought,” BFF opined. “You sound disappointed,” I remarked. “It’s just that I was expecting something much bigger,” she explained. I had described it as the size of an egg. Was she thinking of a dinosaur egg? It’s large enough to me, I thought.
My doctor called it a tumor, almost certainly benign and with a long medical name I can’t remember but otherwise known as a lipoma. Let’s get down to basics – it’s FAT. I don’t have enough of that already on my hips and butt, the fat is now finding its way to my elbows? Great. She recommended I see a surgeon. “So that means it has to come out?” I queried, knowing full well the surgeon won’t want simply to admire it but will want to do what he does best – cut.
Off to the surgeon with my egg-shaped lump. Yes, it has to come out, he said (what a surprise!), and we send it to pathology for a look at the tissue. Same-day surgery, small incision, no big deal (sure, it’s not your arm, I thought). So now it’s off to pre-admission testing. I haven’t had this much pre-admission testing since I applied to college, but, thankfully, this time there was no math.
Tests (blood work, chest x-ray, EKG, echocardiogram, all at separate places at separate times) done, the day before the surgery comes a call from the hospital with a few questions for my paperwork. What follows are some of the questions along with the answers I would have liked to give, but, assuming little time or sense of humor prevailed, I restrained myself.
Question: Which arm?
Tina, thinking, “Good question, I like that they want to do this right. Only it’s the left.”
Question: Have you ever had one of the following: Hypertension, heart palpitations, heart attack, stroke..?
Tina, thinking, “Good. So far, no issues…”
Question: Diabetes, cancer, thyroid diseases, kidney problems, previous surgeries…?
Tina, thinking, “OK, honey, slow that list down, and how much time do you have today?”
Question: Do you know your height and weight?
Tina, thinking, “Yes, but I don’t wish to share them with you, unless we want to tell me after the surgery that this thing weighed 50 pounds, which would be A-OK with me.”
Question: Are you on a calorie-restricted diet?
Tina, thinking, “Did I not just have to reveal my weight? Would I weigh this much if I were on any kind of dietary restrictions? And besides, this is same-day surgery. Are we planning a celebration dinner for the coming out party?”
Question: Do you smoke?
Tina, thinking, “No, and I want extra credit for never having smoked.”
Question: Do you drink or abuse drugs?
Tina, thinking, “Who doesn’t drink? That’s not a yes or no question, but I don’t drink much. And as for drugs, did you not see the giant list of medication I am already taking? Who’d have time to use illegal drugs in addition to the prescriptions I’m already on?”
Question: “Do you have body piercings?”
Tina, thinking, “Didn’t I tell you I was 57 years old? Unless you are referring to pierced ears, no. No belly rings, no tongue rings, etc. Please. Did I mention I was 57 years old? I won’t even wear an ankle bracelet. It’s also safe to rule out tattoos, in case you were wondering.”
Question: “Have you been depressed or anxious over the past few weeks?”
Tina, thinking, “Well, not until you started asking me these questions.”
Despite the litany of questions asked in advance, the nurses had yet more queries for me upon arrival. One insisted I have a pregnancy test. For those keeping score, I went home without a lump or a bump, so that was for naught.
The anesthesiologist asked what the procedure would be. I showed him the lump and indicated it would be removed. “That’s all?” he asked. “Yep, that’s it for today,” I responded, wondering why he asked. By third time he asked, I was beginning to wonder what he had in mind. Had he noticed something else that ought to be done, as long as I would be under his spell anyway? You know, like when you are getting your house or car repaired and you get into one of those “while you’re there, you might as well…” routines. Or was there some kind of “buy one, get one free” promotion going on that I didn’t know about? All I know is that I went in for one thing, and just that one thing was done.
I had to sign papers advising me not to make any big decisions that day. Luckily, I had already decided on a turkey and cheese sandwich for dinner, so I could avoid all decisions of such magnitude for the rest of the day, unless you count deciding whether I’d nap on the new recliner or in bed (naps should NOT be in bed, I think; beds are for sleeping, not napping). I couldn’t do any heavy lifting or operate heavy machinery, but there’s no tractor on the north 40 that needed moving, so I am OK there, too. Luckily, this is my left elbow and I’m right handed, so the left arm is mostly along for the ride anyway, so I am in good hands, so to speak.
As for the surgery itself, it was my first same-day procedure other than a colonoscopy and much better than that, I assure you. In the hospital by 8 AM, had a nice dose of anesthesia to keep me pain-free and dopier than usual, and home at noon. The lump didn’t weigh nearly as much as I had hoped, so I can’t recommend out-patient surgery as a weight-loss routine.
All told, the egg-orcism was a big success, and a relatively good experience with the health care system. But how do I get the magic marker indicating the left arm off my skin? That should be my biggest problem.
I do love a happy ending.
Next, I did the logical thing, I checked with a professional: I called my sister, who, armed with a medical guide for parents, now fancies herself a medical consultant. Dermatology is my specialty, she explained, recommending that I go to the doctor. (“Hang up this phone right now and call the doctor,” is actually how she put it.)
Parenthetically speaking, one of the best things about retirement is that when the doctor’s office says, “Can you come tomorrow at 11:15?” I don’t have to say, “No, but I have an opening the day after Thanksgiving. What’s another six months anyway?”
So off I went to deal with the lump.
I showed my BFF (best friend forever) the lump. “It’s smaller than I thought,” BFF opined. “You sound disappointed,” I remarked. “It’s just that I was expecting something much bigger,” she explained. I had described it as the size of an egg. Was she thinking of a dinosaur egg? It’s large enough to me, I thought.
My doctor called it a tumor, almost certainly benign and with a long medical name I can’t remember but otherwise known as a lipoma. Let’s get down to basics – it’s FAT. I don’t have enough of that already on my hips and butt, the fat is now finding its way to my elbows? Great. She recommended I see a surgeon. “So that means it has to come out?” I queried, knowing full well the surgeon won’t want simply to admire it but will want to do what he does best – cut.
Off to the surgeon with my egg-shaped lump. Yes, it has to come out, he said (what a surprise!), and we send it to pathology for a look at the tissue. Same-day surgery, small incision, no big deal (sure, it’s not your arm, I thought). So now it’s off to pre-admission testing. I haven’t had this much pre-admission testing since I applied to college, but, thankfully, this time there was no math.
Tests (blood work, chest x-ray, EKG, echocardiogram, all at separate places at separate times) done, the day before the surgery comes a call from the hospital with a few questions for my paperwork. What follows are some of the questions along with the answers I would have liked to give, but, assuming little time or sense of humor prevailed, I restrained myself.
Question: Which arm?
Tina, thinking, “Good question, I like that they want to do this right. Only it’s the left.”
Question: Have you ever had one of the following: Hypertension, heart palpitations, heart attack, stroke..?
Tina, thinking, “Good. So far, no issues…”
Question: Diabetes, cancer, thyroid diseases, kidney problems, previous surgeries…?
Tina, thinking, “OK, honey, slow that list down, and how much time do you have today?”
Question: Do you know your height and weight?
Tina, thinking, “Yes, but I don’t wish to share them with you, unless we want to tell me after the surgery that this thing weighed 50 pounds, which would be A-OK with me.”
Question: Are you on a calorie-restricted diet?
Tina, thinking, “Did I not just have to reveal my weight? Would I weigh this much if I were on any kind of dietary restrictions? And besides, this is same-day surgery. Are we planning a celebration dinner for the coming out party?”
Question: Do you smoke?
Tina, thinking, “No, and I want extra credit for never having smoked.”
Question: Do you drink or abuse drugs?
Tina, thinking, “Who doesn’t drink? That’s not a yes or no question, but I don’t drink much. And as for drugs, did you not see the giant list of medication I am already taking? Who’d have time to use illegal drugs in addition to the prescriptions I’m already on?”
Question: “Do you have body piercings?”
Tina, thinking, “Didn’t I tell you I was 57 years old? Unless you are referring to pierced ears, no. No belly rings, no tongue rings, etc. Please. Did I mention I was 57 years old? I won’t even wear an ankle bracelet. It’s also safe to rule out tattoos, in case you were wondering.”
Question: “Have you been depressed or anxious over the past few weeks?”
Tina, thinking, “Well, not until you started asking me these questions.”
Despite the litany of questions asked in advance, the nurses had yet more queries for me upon arrival. One insisted I have a pregnancy test. For those keeping score, I went home without a lump or a bump, so that was for naught.
The anesthesiologist asked what the procedure would be. I showed him the lump and indicated it would be removed. “That’s all?” he asked. “Yep, that’s it for today,” I responded, wondering why he asked. By third time he asked, I was beginning to wonder what he had in mind. Had he noticed something else that ought to be done, as long as I would be under his spell anyway? You know, like when you are getting your house or car repaired and you get into one of those “while you’re there, you might as well…” routines. Or was there some kind of “buy one, get one free” promotion going on that I didn’t know about? All I know is that I went in for one thing, and just that one thing was done.
I had to sign papers advising me not to make any big decisions that day. Luckily, I had already decided on a turkey and cheese sandwich for dinner, so I could avoid all decisions of such magnitude for the rest of the day, unless you count deciding whether I’d nap on the new recliner or in bed (naps should NOT be in bed, I think; beds are for sleeping, not napping). I couldn’t do any heavy lifting or operate heavy machinery, but there’s no tractor on the north 40 that needed moving, so I am OK there, too. Luckily, this is my left elbow and I’m right handed, so the left arm is mostly along for the ride anyway, so I am in good hands, so to speak.
As for the surgery itself, it was my first same-day procedure other than a colonoscopy and much better than that, I assure you. In the hospital by 8 AM, had a nice dose of anesthesia to keep me pain-free and dopier than usual, and home at noon. The lump didn’t weigh nearly as much as I had hoped, so I can’t recommend out-patient surgery as a weight-loss routine.
All told, the egg-orcism was a big success, and a relatively good experience with the health care system. But how do I get the magic marker indicating the left arm off my skin? That should be my biggest problem.
I do love a happy ending.
Supermarket Sweep - March, 2008
Since I retired, my supermarket shopping habits have changed drastically. I am home more, so I cook more, which means I shop more often and buy more stuff. My trips are more leisurely – and more expensive. And I have carefully, though unscientifically, researched the optimal time to shop, which turns out to be around 3 PM Tuesdays through Thursdays.
You don’t want to go on the weekend because the stores are too crowded. On Mondays and Fridays, people are restocking from or for the weekend. You want to avoid the early crowd, consisting largely of “old people” (yeah, I know, look out, ‘cause here I come) who amble through the aisles, blissfully unaware they are blocking the way of the rest of us while they attempt to figure out whether the coupon is better with the regularly priced item or if the item on sale is a better buy. Once they have left, you still have to face the moms, armed with crying kids in their carts, rushing to get their errands done before the other kids arrive home. By 3, the moms have evacuated the premises, racing home to greet the kiddies as they get off the bus. And that hour is still too early for the people who stop at the store on their way home from work, because they are still working. So 3 PM seems like the best time to go.
Even after my exhaustive research, there are issues with which I must contend. I’d spend less and eat less, for that matter, if I went in without a cart at all and only bought what I could carry out. How many times have you gone into the supermarket for a container of milk, or eggs or butter and come out with three bags and $75 poorer?
And how many times are you on line, in a hurry, behind the person who is searching through a purse the size of a weekend bag for her frequent shopper card – and then has to write a check? Or you pick the aisle where the cashiers are about to switch – or worse, have to change the register tape? Picking the right lane can save valuable minutes, but that never happens to me.
But what is really unlikely to happen to me is incorrect cart identification. I’d never confuse my cart with someone else’s cart and be chased around the store by its rightful owner (which actually happened to a friend of mine).
I can’t help noticing that other people’s carts are filled (and the difference starts there since I live alone and never get anywhere close to filling a cart) with all kinds of items I just never buy.
Start with pet food. I have no pets (besides pet peeves, and there are plenty of them), so you won’t find Fancy Feast, kitty litter or those 100 pound bags of Alpo on the bottom of my cart (which I have never resorted to using). And speaking of large items, you’ll see no giant packages of diapers – 96 diapers, or a two-day supply for some people – in my cart. For that matter, no little babies are riding in the top part of the cart. That’s good, because that’s where all of my groceries generally fit.
I like my snacks as much as anyone else, but I have my rules. So don’t expect to find ice cream in my cart in the winter. Food that changes your skin color – like Cheetos – is also verboten. I hate Freetos because they smell like feet, and I’d die before I’d eat a Slim Jim or anything referred to as “jerky.” And while I’d give my right arm for a Devil Dog, you’ll more likely find a box of Weight Watchers chocolate cakes (one point, but very tasty) or fat-free pudding in my cart.
The other day I saw a cart with at least six giant containers of orange juice. To me, that’s a lifetime supply, but maybe this person runs a day care center or has a large family. Or maybe there’s a BIG batch of mimosas or screwdrivers in someone’s plans...
I went shopping with a friend recently who lingered at the hummus selection while I blew past the hummus, guacamole, taboleh and anything else that sounds remotely healthy or good for you. That frees my time from having to stop in the organic section of the store at all. I know they have aisles for that, but I’ve never gone down one. I can get past the pork and ham selections without slowing down because, as a good Jew, I only eat bacon, and that’s only outside of the house. I skip the sausages and most other breakfast items (no pancakes or waffles; I prefer French toast), including most cereals. I’ll bypass the potato bread (huh??), the bakery cakes and the packaged pies.
So what do you find in my cart? Chicken, beef, bananas and bread mostly, with fish, cheese, veggies and salad thrown in. There are light versions of everything from jelly and cranberry juice to cream cheese and hot chocolate (only in the winter; see “ice cream rule” above). But nary a can of chili, Chef Boyardee or peanut butter has made its way into my cart.
Two things are for sure: One, you’ll never confuse my cart for yours (or vice versa), and, two, you’d want to be behind me in the checkout aisle, believe me. Twenty items or less, anyone?
You don’t want to go on the weekend because the stores are too crowded. On Mondays and Fridays, people are restocking from or for the weekend. You want to avoid the early crowd, consisting largely of “old people” (yeah, I know, look out, ‘cause here I come) who amble through the aisles, blissfully unaware they are blocking the way of the rest of us while they attempt to figure out whether the coupon is better with the regularly priced item or if the item on sale is a better buy. Once they have left, you still have to face the moms, armed with crying kids in their carts, rushing to get their errands done before the other kids arrive home. By 3, the moms have evacuated the premises, racing home to greet the kiddies as they get off the bus. And that hour is still too early for the people who stop at the store on their way home from work, because they are still working. So 3 PM seems like the best time to go.
Even after my exhaustive research, there are issues with which I must contend. I’d spend less and eat less, for that matter, if I went in without a cart at all and only bought what I could carry out. How many times have you gone into the supermarket for a container of milk, or eggs or butter and come out with three bags and $75 poorer?
And how many times are you on line, in a hurry, behind the person who is searching through a purse the size of a weekend bag for her frequent shopper card – and then has to write a check? Or you pick the aisle where the cashiers are about to switch – or worse, have to change the register tape? Picking the right lane can save valuable minutes, but that never happens to me.
But what is really unlikely to happen to me is incorrect cart identification. I’d never confuse my cart with someone else’s cart and be chased around the store by its rightful owner (which actually happened to a friend of mine).
I can’t help noticing that other people’s carts are filled (and the difference starts there since I live alone and never get anywhere close to filling a cart) with all kinds of items I just never buy.
Start with pet food. I have no pets (besides pet peeves, and there are plenty of them), so you won’t find Fancy Feast, kitty litter or those 100 pound bags of Alpo on the bottom of my cart (which I have never resorted to using). And speaking of large items, you’ll see no giant packages of diapers – 96 diapers, or a two-day supply for some people – in my cart. For that matter, no little babies are riding in the top part of the cart. That’s good, because that’s where all of my groceries generally fit.
I like my snacks as much as anyone else, but I have my rules. So don’t expect to find ice cream in my cart in the winter. Food that changes your skin color – like Cheetos – is also verboten. I hate Freetos because they smell like feet, and I’d die before I’d eat a Slim Jim or anything referred to as “jerky.” And while I’d give my right arm for a Devil Dog, you’ll more likely find a box of Weight Watchers chocolate cakes (one point, but very tasty) or fat-free pudding in my cart.
The other day I saw a cart with at least six giant containers of orange juice. To me, that’s a lifetime supply, but maybe this person runs a day care center or has a large family. Or maybe there’s a BIG batch of mimosas or screwdrivers in someone’s plans...
I went shopping with a friend recently who lingered at the hummus selection while I blew past the hummus, guacamole, taboleh and anything else that sounds remotely healthy or good for you. That frees my time from having to stop in the organic section of the store at all. I know they have aisles for that, but I’ve never gone down one. I can get past the pork and ham selections without slowing down because, as a good Jew, I only eat bacon, and that’s only outside of the house. I skip the sausages and most other breakfast items (no pancakes or waffles; I prefer French toast), including most cereals. I’ll bypass the potato bread (huh??), the bakery cakes and the packaged pies.
So what do you find in my cart? Chicken, beef, bananas and bread mostly, with fish, cheese, veggies and salad thrown in. There are light versions of everything from jelly and cranberry juice to cream cheese and hot chocolate (only in the winter; see “ice cream rule” above). But nary a can of chili, Chef Boyardee or peanut butter has made its way into my cart.
Two things are for sure: One, you’ll never confuse my cart for yours (or vice versa), and, two, you’d want to be behind me in the checkout aisle, believe me. Twenty items or less, anyone?
The End of an Era - September, 2008
I woke up sad yesterday and I wasn’t sure why. Then I remembered – Yankee Stadium closes today.
In 1959, when I wasn’t playing with my Dinah Shore or Lennon Sisters paper dolls, you could find me outside, having a catch with Henry Watkin or Stevie Rice. I discovered baseball that year or the year before during a two-week stint in day camp where the game was played every day. I soon found out that you could learn about the players by collecting their baseball cards, which featured handsome pictures of them on one side and all their stats on the back. The nearly tasteless gum was far less important than amassing a collection of baseball cards. You could trade them or, if you had doubles of Norm Seibern or someone who just didn’t matter, you could put them in the spokes of your bike and make that cool noise. You just would never do that with a Yankees card. Yankees were to be collected and savored.
We were a New York Post house, and the sports section started on the back cover of the paper. Coverage of the Yankees appeared every day, with little mention of the National League (the Mets wouldn’t exist for another three years). I read voraciously about the exploits of the Yankees, with Mickey and Yogi and Whitey and Casey Stengel. 1959 was my first year following the team, and the first time in years the Yankees led the league in nothing and failed to reach the World Series. There were no playoffs then; you either won the American League pennant and went to the World Series or you went home.
Late that year, my father took me to my first game. We sat in the right field bleachers, within spitting distance of the bullpen. Seeing that vast expanse of green grass for the first time was thrilling. How did Mickey cover that huge centerfield? Why were those monuments right on the field, where a ball might reach them? I remember it being Yogi Berra night, and they gave Yogi a color TV and drove him around in a car. Wow! That was it for me. I fell in love that night with that team and that place, and though we have broken up a few times in the nearly 50 ensuing years, neither of us ever cheated on the other. Today I love Derek Jeter the way I used to love Mickey Mantle. There has never been another team for me. And there never will be.
So now Yankee Stadium is closing, being replaced by the new Yankee Stadium, which, thankfully, will not be called the Acme Airlines Mopar Lestoil Stadium. The House That Ruth Built will be no more. The new Yankee Stadium will open across the street, and the old Yankee Stadium – which was renovated in the 1970s so it isn’t exactly the original – will be swept clean of souvenirs and ultimately demolished. The tradition, the heritage, the team, will migrate across the street to the new House That Steinbrenner Built, but the dirt where Babe Ruth stood, the grass where Mickey Mantle first injured his knee, and the short right field porch where Roger Maris powered his 61st home run will be no more.
I’ve been to Yankee Stadium many times. I’ve attended Old Timers Day (I cry every year) and Opening Day and even saw one-handed Jim Abbott pitch a no-hitter. I’ve found typographical errors in the monuments of sainted players and have written to George Steinbrenner himself to point them out (no response). I’ve sweated through sun drenched games and I have wrapped my scarf around me tightly to stave off the cold temperatures of the early spring. And I’ll no doubt go to see the Yankees again, and check out the new stadium, with its wide walkways, sparkling bathrooms and huge video replay screens. But make no mistake – it is the end of an era.
In 1959, when I wasn’t playing with my Dinah Shore or Lennon Sisters paper dolls, you could find me outside, having a catch with Henry Watkin or Stevie Rice. I discovered baseball that year or the year before during a two-week stint in day camp where the game was played every day. I soon found out that you could learn about the players by collecting their baseball cards, which featured handsome pictures of them on one side and all their stats on the back. The nearly tasteless gum was far less important than amassing a collection of baseball cards. You could trade them or, if you had doubles of Norm Seibern or someone who just didn’t matter, you could put them in the spokes of your bike and make that cool noise. You just would never do that with a Yankees card. Yankees were to be collected and savored.
We were a New York Post house, and the sports section started on the back cover of the paper. Coverage of the Yankees appeared every day, with little mention of the National League (the Mets wouldn’t exist for another three years). I read voraciously about the exploits of the Yankees, with Mickey and Yogi and Whitey and Casey Stengel. 1959 was my first year following the team, and the first time in years the Yankees led the league in nothing and failed to reach the World Series. There were no playoffs then; you either won the American League pennant and went to the World Series or you went home.
Late that year, my father took me to my first game. We sat in the right field bleachers, within spitting distance of the bullpen. Seeing that vast expanse of green grass for the first time was thrilling. How did Mickey cover that huge centerfield? Why were those monuments right on the field, where a ball might reach them? I remember it being Yogi Berra night, and they gave Yogi a color TV and drove him around in a car. Wow! That was it for me. I fell in love that night with that team and that place, and though we have broken up a few times in the nearly 50 ensuing years, neither of us ever cheated on the other. Today I love Derek Jeter the way I used to love Mickey Mantle. There has never been another team for me. And there never will be.
So now Yankee Stadium is closing, being replaced by the new Yankee Stadium, which, thankfully, will not be called the Acme Airlines Mopar Lestoil Stadium. The House That Ruth Built will be no more. The new Yankee Stadium will open across the street, and the old Yankee Stadium – which was renovated in the 1970s so it isn’t exactly the original – will be swept clean of souvenirs and ultimately demolished. The tradition, the heritage, the team, will migrate across the street to the new House That Steinbrenner Built, but the dirt where Babe Ruth stood, the grass where Mickey Mantle first injured his knee, and the short right field porch where Roger Maris powered his 61st home run will be no more.
I’ve been to Yankee Stadium many times. I’ve attended Old Timers Day (I cry every year) and Opening Day and even saw one-handed Jim Abbott pitch a no-hitter. I’ve found typographical errors in the monuments of sainted players and have written to George Steinbrenner himself to point them out (no response). I’ve sweated through sun drenched games and I have wrapped my scarf around me tightly to stave off the cold temperatures of the early spring. And I’ll no doubt go to see the Yankees again, and check out the new stadium, with its wide walkways, sparkling bathrooms and huge video replay screens. But make no mistake – it is the end of an era.
Signs of the Times - October, 2007
Remember the good old days, when practically the only restriction inhibiting us was “Keep Off the Grass?” Those days are long gone. Now, even a walk on grass (where permitted, of course) is accompanied by reading material, instructing you what to do with dog waste, the hours of the park, where you can park your car to go for a walk, where to deposit your non-dog trash, ad nauseum.
I recently saw a sign at a strip mall that read, “No skating, skateboarding, heelies, shoes with wheels, no littering or loitering.” I guess they forgot the “No fun” warning. Or they could simply have said, “Welcome senior citizens.”
Read fast when you are driving, or you might be in the express lane with no chance to exit, or you might be in the EZ Pass lane without EZ Pass on your windshield. Or, God forbid, you might be enjoying a leisurely ride in the carpool lane outside posted hours. When you park, make sure it isn’t in a “No Parking, Stopping or Standing Zone.” If your car breaks down, don’t do it on the highway where there are “No Shoulder” signs. And if you have to use a restroom on the road, beware the rest stops that warn “No Facilities Available.” I guess when they say rest stop, they really mean REST.
For that matter, if you do find a bathroom, please heed the instructions. Place your hands under the faucet to get the water to start, and under the paper towel dispenser to grab a towel for drying them – unless there is a dryer, and when you must “Shake off excess water and rub hands quickly to dry” (by the way, this never works for me). Don’t flush the sanitary products: “Dispose of Sanitary Products in Receptacles” at all times.
If you are at the doctor’s office, there’s no need to worry about having enough reading material while you wait. Just read the plethora of signs posted around the office windows. “Payment Is Expected at Time of Service.” Translation: “Give us your money and then you can sit down and wait an hour. That way, if you get fed up and leave, we have your co-pay.” If you are stuck there waiting, don’t even think about using your cell phone to let someone know, because “Cell Phone Use is Prohibited.” And you better show up with your referral, because “You Are Responsible for Obtaining Your Referral in Advance of Your Appointment.” While you’re at it, you had better be sure you “Notify Us of Any Changes in Your Insurance,” and, if you need a prescription refilled, at least one doctor’s office I visit advises you to ask for the RX live and in person, because “We No Longer Call or Fax Prescriptions to the Druggist.” But my favorite sign, in the same office, was one that warmly welcomed patients, with “Please Sign In and Take a Seat. You May Not Ask a Question Until Your Name Is Called.” No bedside manner in this place, unless you count the word “Please.” So let me get this straight: I have to show up, sign-in, not speak, have my referral and the names (and dosages) of any drugs I need with me, pay in advance, give them my insurance information and not talk on my cell phone. I barely had time to read everything before they called me in. In fact, it took more time for me to read the posted signs than to see the doctor.
I picture a future in which we find a sign that says: “Please Line Up Here to Wait for the Apocalypse.” On second thought, it may be too late.
I recently saw a sign at a strip mall that read, “No skating, skateboarding, heelies, shoes with wheels, no littering or loitering.” I guess they forgot the “No fun” warning. Or they could simply have said, “Welcome senior citizens.”
Read fast when you are driving, or you might be in the express lane with no chance to exit, or you might be in the EZ Pass lane without EZ Pass on your windshield. Or, God forbid, you might be enjoying a leisurely ride in the carpool lane outside posted hours. When you park, make sure it isn’t in a “No Parking, Stopping or Standing Zone.” If your car breaks down, don’t do it on the highway where there are “No Shoulder” signs. And if you have to use a restroom on the road, beware the rest stops that warn “No Facilities Available.” I guess when they say rest stop, they really mean REST.
For that matter, if you do find a bathroom, please heed the instructions. Place your hands under the faucet to get the water to start, and under the paper towel dispenser to grab a towel for drying them – unless there is a dryer, and when you must “Shake off excess water and rub hands quickly to dry” (by the way, this never works for me). Don’t flush the sanitary products: “Dispose of Sanitary Products in Receptacles” at all times.
If you are at the doctor’s office, there’s no need to worry about having enough reading material while you wait. Just read the plethora of signs posted around the office windows. “Payment Is Expected at Time of Service.” Translation: “Give us your money and then you can sit down and wait an hour. That way, if you get fed up and leave, we have your co-pay.” If you are stuck there waiting, don’t even think about using your cell phone to let someone know, because “Cell Phone Use is Prohibited.” And you better show up with your referral, because “You Are Responsible for Obtaining Your Referral in Advance of Your Appointment.” While you’re at it, you had better be sure you “Notify Us of Any Changes in Your Insurance,” and, if you need a prescription refilled, at least one doctor’s office I visit advises you to ask for the RX live and in person, because “We No Longer Call or Fax Prescriptions to the Druggist.” But my favorite sign, in the same office, was one that warmly welcomed patients, with “Please Sign In and Take a Seat. You May Not Ask a Question Until Your Name Is Called.” No bedside manner in this place, unless you count the word “Please.” So let me get this straight: I have to show up, sign-in, not speak, have my referral and the names (and dosages) of any drugs I need with me, pay in advance, give them my insurance information and not talk on my cell phone. I barely had time to read everything before they called me in. In fact, it took more time for me to read the posted signs than to see the doctor.
I picture a future in which we find a sign that says: “Please Line Up Here to Wait for the Apocalypse.” On second thought, it may be too late.
Random Ramblings - December, 2008
With apologies to Andy Rooney and Sarah Palin fans, I thought I’d provide a potpourri of prose this month, getting a few things off my chest.
Though the only pets I have are pet peeves, I think I am in love with Cesar Milan, better known as “The Dog Whisperer.” That man can take a lunatic lab, practically foaming at the mouth, and lovingly train it – in minutes – to understand the “pack mentality” and the role of the “alpha dog.” Mind you, I’m not sure I understand this lingo, but it seems to work for Cesar and the incorrigible dogs he takes on. Personally, I think Obama should have named him Secretary of State. He’d get the incorrigible nations of the world all straightened out. Check out his show on the National Geographic channel.
Speaking of cable, if you always feel confused by your insurance policies, then I defy you to decipher your cable bill. There are tiers, digital tiers, digital classics, sports packages – all intertwined in a way designed to make it impossible to understand. Once I called cable to drop HBO from my package, thereby saving $13 a month. Because the HBO cost was connected to the cost of other packages, and the phones and the internet, it would have cost me more to drop it than to keep it. Recently I called Comcast again to see how I could reduce the cost of my cable/internet/phone package – which now runs $200+ a month – and I was told to call back in a few weeks, after the new prices go into effect. Jeez, my first apartment cost about the same ($236 a month) as my cable bill today. And did I mention there still nothing on (hence my newfound appreciation of “The Dog Whisperer”)?
I also don’t understand the concept of going out to a club at 3 or 4 in the morning, armed with a gun. If I am going anywhere at that hour, it is a trip to the bathroom, and I am unarmed. So I have little sympathy for (former) Giants football player Plaxico Burress, who accidentally shot himself in the thigh with his own (unregistered) gun. Hey, it could have been much worse, right? The ignominy of shooting off a body part should be enough to dissuade most people from carrying guns. I think this is why Andy Griffith let Barney carry a gun but never gave him a bullet.
Yes, it seems I may have too much time on my hands, but I don’t understand why anyone, including Heidi, can tolerate the odious Spencer Pratt on “The Hills.” If you haven’t seen it, don’t bother. I think Plaxico should have pointed the gun at him.
And speaking of shooting…if the Republicans want to continue shooting themselves in the foot, Sarah Palin is just the “gal” to do it for them, you betcha. Where was her communications person as she pardoned a turkey for Thanksgiving with the unlucky birds being slaughtered in the background?
Kohl’s had a sale today. Then again, a day without a Kohl’s sale would be like a day without sunshine. If I recycled only fliers from Kohl’s, I would save a forest worth of trees each year.
The beauty of being retired is that if I am sick and call the doctor and the nurse says, “Can you come in at 11 today?” I can. I no longer have to schedule illnesses and toothaches over the holidays. I can get sick any time now!
Under the category of “Driving Miss Daisy Crazy,” if you are going to ride on the right as the lanes merge and cut me off, then just move over, will you? Don’t keep staying to the right once I have conceded the space. If you are going to pull out in front of me, for God’s sake don’t slow down! And finally in this category, how does the light near my house know that I am coming and instantly turn red as I approach that intersection? I swear it happens every single time.
I sometimes feel like I am about two days away from hopping on the Senior Citizens bus. So I joined Facebook, persuaded by a young former colleague, so I could be cool and “with it.” But Facebook demands to know “What are you doing right now?” I notice that my friends are trending somewhat older than the typical Facebook demographic, as they answer that question with “I am going to bed,” “I am exhausted,” and other equally exciting news.
I still can’t figure out why the rug near my bed keeps creeping under the bed. What’s up with that?
Could the coupons from Bed, Bath and Beyond be any larger? I have bought towels there that weren’t that big. One came in the mail yesterday that was literally 8 x 10. I think I’ll frame it.
I had a dream about eyebrows. Mine suddenly got thick and overgrown and had to be trimmed back, which made me look like Groucho Marx. Make mental note: Do not watch Andy Rooney before going to bed. Then, the following week, Andy Rooney says on “60 Minutes” that someone wrote in to praise him for trimming his eyebrows, which he swears he’s never had done (and I believe him). I hope this doesn’t mean another eyebrow nightmare for me.
Finally, I have been thinking about all the great things that have been invented during my lifetime. So, with apologies to Thomas Edison, whose electric light bulb is pretty darn useful, here’s my top five list of inventions:
5. Microwave – Heating, reheating, whatever, this device really cuts down time in the kitchen. I’m so spoiled by the microwave that when the package directions say, “Heat on high for 10 minutes,” I can help saying, “Do they think I have all day?”
4. Cell phone/cordless phones – Remember that shoebox-sized cell phone Michael Douglas used on the beach during “Wall Street?” And we thought that was an advance! The freedom to have inane and unnecessary conversations in inappropriate places notwithstanding, going wireless comes in really handy.
3. iPod – We’ve come a long way since I listened to Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons on my Sears Silvertone transistor radio. I’m still amazed I can cart around my entire record collection on a device that fits in my pocket.
2. Cable TV and the Digital Video Recorder – I had cable TV installed on my 35th birthday, the earliest it was offered where I lived at that time. I had a birthday party that night and couldn’t wait til everyone left so I could watch cable. Now, I can’t imagine life without my DVR. Controlling what I watch and when I watch it is great.
1. The Gift bag – See, it’s not all about high tech. Really, isn’t it better to slide the gift in a bag and stuff it with tissue paper than all that wrapping and taping, especially with large or odd-shaped gifts? You gotta love the gift bag.
And with that, happy wrapping and happy holidays to all.
Though the only pets I have are pet peeves, I think I am in love with Cesar Milan, better known as “The Dog Whisperer.” That man can take a lunatic lab, practically foaming at the mouth, and lovingly train it – in minutes – to understand the “pack mentality” and the role of the “alpha dog.” Mind you, I’m not sure I understand this lingo, but it seems to work for Cesar and the incorrigible dogs he takes on. Personally, I think Obama should have named him Secretary of State. He’d get the incorrigible nations of the world all straightened out. Check out his show on the National Geographic channel.
Speaking of cable, if you always feel confused by your insurance policies, then I defy you to decipher your cable bill. There are tiers, digital tiers, digital classics, sports packages – all intertwined in a way designed to make it impossible to understand. Once I called cable to drop HBO from my package, thereby saving $13 a month. Because the HBO cost was connected to the cost of other packages, and the phones and the internet, it would have cost me more to drop it than to keep it. Recently I called Comcast again to see how I could reduce the cost of my cable/internet/phone package – which now runs $200+ a month – and I was told to call back in a few weeks, after the new prices go into effect. Jeez, my first apartment cost about the same ($236 a month) as my cable bill today. And did I mention there still nothing on (hence my newfound appreciation of “The Dog Whisperer”)?
I also don’t understand the concept of going out to a club at 3 or 4 in the morning, armed with a gun. If I am going anywhere at that hour, it is a trip to the bathroom, and I am unarmed. So I have little sympathy for (former) Giants football player Plaxico Burress, who accidentally shot himself in the thigh with his own (unregistered) gun. Hey, it could have been much worse, right? The ignominy of shooting off a body part should be enough to dissuade most people from carrying guns. I think this is why Andy Griffith let Barney carry a gun but never gave him a bullet.
Yes, it seems I may have too much time on my hands, but I don’t understand why anyone, including Heidi, can tolerate the odious Spencer Pratt on “The Hills.” If you haven’t seen it, don’t bother. I think Plaxico should have pointed the gun at him.
And speaking of shooting…if the Republicans want to continue shooting themselves in the foot, Sarah Palin is just the “gal” to do it for them, you betcha. Where was her communications person as she pardoned a turkey for Thanksgiving with the unlucky birds being slaughtered in the background?
Kohl’s had a sale today. Then again, a day without a Kohl’s sale would be like a day without sunshine. If I recycled only fliers from Kohl’s, I would save a forest worth of trees each year.
The beauty of being retired is that if I am sick and call the doctor and the nurse says, “Can you come in at 11 today?” I can. I no longer have to schedule illnesses and toothaches over the holidays. I can get sick any time now!
Under the category of “Driving Miss Daisy Crazy,” if you are going to ride on the right as the lanes merge and cut me off, then just move over, will you? Don’t keep staying to the right once I have conceded the space. If you are going to pull out in front of me, for God’s sake don’t slow down! And finally in this category, how does the light near my house know that I am coming and instantly turn red as I approach that intersection? I swear it happens every single time.
I sometimes feel like I am about two days away from hopping on the Senior Citizens bus. So I joined Facebook, persuaded by a young former colleague, so I could be cool and “with it.” But Facebook demands to know “What are you doing right now?” I notice that my friends are trending somewhat older than the typical Facebook demographic, as they answer that question with “I am going to bed,” “I am exhausted,” and other equally exciting news.
I still can’t figure out why the rug near my bed keeps creeping under the bed. What’s up with that?
Could the coupons from Bed, Bath and Beyond be any larger? I have bought towels there that weren’t that big. One came in the mail yesterday that was literally 8 x 10. I think I’ll frame it.
I had a dream about eyebrows. Mine suddenly got thick and overgrown and had to be trimmed back, which made me look like Groucho Marx. Make mental note: Do not watch Andy Rooney before going to bed. Then, the following week, Andy Rooney says on “60 Minutes” that someone wrote in to praise him for trimming his eyebrows, which he swears he’s never had done (and I believe him). I hope this doesn’t mean another eyebrow nightmare for me.
Finally, I have been thinking about all the great things that have been invented during my lifetime. So, with apologies to Thomas Edison, whose electric light bulb is pretty darn useful, here’s my top five list of inventions:
5. Microwave – Heating, reheating, whatever, this device really cuts down time in the kitchen. I’m so spoiled by the microwave that when the package directions say, “Heat on high for 10 minutes,” I can help saying, “Do they think I have all day?”
4. Cell phone/cordless phones – Remember that shoebox-sized cell phone Michael Douglas used on the beach during “Wall Street?” And we thought that was an advance! The freedom to have inane and unnecessary conversations in inappropriate places notwithstanding, going wireless comes in really handy.
3. iPod – We’ve come a long way since I listened to Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons on my Sears Silvertone transistor radio. I’m still amazed I can cart around my entire record collection on a device that fits in my pocket.
2. Cable TV and the Digital Video Recorder – I had cable TV installed on my 35th birthday, the earliest it was offered where I lived at that time. I had a birthday party that night and couldn’t wait til everyone left so I could watch cable. Now, I can’t imagine life without my DVR. Controlling what I watch and when I watch it is great.
1. The Gift bag – See, it’s not all about high tech. Really, isn’t it better to slide the gift in a bag and stuff it with tissue paper than all that wrapping and taping, especially with large or odd-shaped gifts? You gotta love the gift bag.
And with that, happy wrapping and happy holidays to all.
Oprah, Oprah, Oprah - April, 2008
As much as she would like me to, I don’t watch Oprah every day. Sometimes I’m not home, or sometimes I am engrossed in an important activity, like marinating meat, cleaning my combs or organizing my recycling. But whether I watch Oprah or not doesn’t matter. The fact is that Oprah is taking over the world.
It all starts with her daily talk show, which, if you miss it or don’t Tivo it, you can catch when it is repeated in the wee hours on ABC. Daily she delivers entertainment as well as information and experts on health, psychology, fashion and style and just about every aspect of modern life. After all, where else would you find Tom Cruise jumping on a couch? Each December, we get to see “Oprah’s Favorite Things,” a show devoted to the best tasting, coolest products her staff can find that she reviews and approves. Just in case we need to know what to buy and where to shop, Oprah is there to guide us. If you miss any of this information, you can find it on-line on her oprah.com website. I just downloaded a meatloaf recipe by Billy Joel’s wife. Now if I could just get one of Oprah’s cooks to make it for me…
Oprah’s book club, featured on her TV show, has encouraged millions to read and has made best sellers out of books we might not otherwise have considered reading.
Her magazine – which has a picture of the Oprah herself on every cover – features many of the same topics as those on her show, just in case we have extra time between reading Oprah books, doing Oprah workouts, listening to Oprah on satellite radio (where she has her own network) or going to see movies like “The Great Debaters,” produced by – you guessed it – Oprah. That’s right, her Harpo productions produces movies, Broadway shows, television programs, and, of course, the ubiquitous flagship TV show. Her latest TV program, “Oprah’s Big Give,” taught people how to give away money and help strangers, a kind of televised generosity we haven’t seen since “Queen For A Day.”
Oprah recently announced plans to acquire Discovery Health, a TV channel that fits within her mission of making us all healthier and better people. So, in case you miss Dr. Oz on her daily TV show, you can watch all-health, all-healthy things Oprah, all day. Her trainers and cooks can have more of a forum to encourage us to eat right and lose weight. Like the rest of us, Oprah works at these goals, with varying degrees of success. Just makes her human, I guess.
Oprah recently took to the Internet to promote a series of on-line classes about her new favorite book, Eckhart Tolle’s “A New Earth.” I think that Oprah might appreciate the guilt I felt for neither having read the book nor signing on to Oprah classes.
It’s not that I don’t admire Oprah. In fact, I admire her enormously. She is a true humanitarian, doing so much more than simply giving away cars and great prizes at random on her show. She supports education and more charities than I could possibly list. She has risen from an impoverished background, dealt with incredibly challenging personal issues and built an empire just on the power of her persona. She has encouraged us to be generous of gift and deed, to read, to eat right and exercise and get healthy. If she ever tires of her long-time best friend, Gayle King, I’ll gladly apply for that position.
In addition to all of the above, Oprah is now telling us to vote for her candidate, Obama. You can bet that many people will do just that, because Oprah told them to. I’m wondering if there are many (or any) aspects of life left where Oprah does not get to have her say. Let’s face it, it’s an Oprah world. She’s just letting us live in it – and telling us how to do that better.
Any day now, I expect to hear the news that Oprah has bought a sports team. Why not? She owns everything else. Can you picture Oprah handing the Super Bowl trophy to the New York Harpos next year? You know, it could happen.
It all starts with her daily talk show, which, if you miss it or don’t Tivo it, you can catch when it is repeated in the wee hours on ABC. Daily she delivers entertainment as well as information and experts on health, psychology, fashion and style and just about every aspect of modern life. After all, where else would you find Tom Cruise jumping on a couch? Each December, we get to see “Oprah’s Favorite Things,” a show devoted to the best tasting, coolest products her staff can find that she reviews and approves. Just in case we need to know what to buy and where to shop, Oprah is there to guide us. If you miss any of this information, you can find it on-line on her oprah.com website. I just downloaded a meatloaf recipe by Billy Joel’s wife. Now if I could just get one of Oprah’s cooks to make it for me…
Oprah’s book club, featured on her TV show, has encouraged millions to read and has made best sellers out of books we might not otherwise have considered reading.
Her magazine – which has a picture of the Oprah herself on every cover – features many of the same topics as those on her show, just in case we have extra time between reading Oprah books, doing Oprah workouts, listening to Oprah on satellite radio (where she has her own network) or going to see movies like “The Great Debaters,” produced by – you guessed it – Oprah. That’s right, her Harpo productions produces movies, Broadway shows, television programs, and, of course, the ubiquitous flagship TV show. Her latest TV program, “Oprah’s Big Give,” taught people how to give away money and help strangers, a kind of televised generosity we haven’t seen since “Queen For A Day.”
Oprah recently announced plans to acquire Discovery Health, a TV channel that fits within her mission of making us all healthier and better people. So, in case you miss Dr. Oz on her daily TV show, you can watch all-health, all-healthy things Oprah, all day. Her trainers and cooks can have more of a forum to encourage us to eat right and lose weight. Like the rest of us, Oprah works at these goals, with varying degrees of success. Just makes her human, I guess.
Oprah recently took to the Internet to promote a series of on-line classes about her new favorite book, Eckhart Tolle’s “A New Earth.” I think that Oprah might appreciate the guilt I felt for neither having read the book nor signing on to Oprah classes.
It’s not that I don’t admire Oprah. In fact, I admire her enormously. She is a true humanitarian, doing so much more than simply giving away cars and great prizes at random on her show. She supports education and more charities than I could possibly list. She has risen from an impoverished background, dealt with incredibly challenging personal issues and built an empire just on the power of her persona. She has encouraged us to be generous of gift and deed, to read, to eat right and exercise and get healthy. If she ever tires of her long-time best friend, Gayle King, I’ll gladly apply for that position.
In addition to all of the above, Oprah is now telling us to vote for her candidate, Obama. You can bet that many people will do just that, because Oprah told them to. I’m wondering if there are many (or any) aspects of life left where Oprah does not get to have her say. Let’s face it, it’s an Oprah world. She’s just letting us live in it – and telling us how to do that better.
Any day now, I expect to hear the news that Oprah has bought a sports team. Why not? She owns everything else. Can you picture Oprah handing the Super Bowl trophy to the New York Harpos next year? You know, it could happen.
March Madness - March, 2007
Recognizing that not everyone is a diehard basketball fall like me, I’ll refrain from more than one simple, “Oh, my God, we beat Duke and are going to the Final Four,” to cover my beloved Rutgers women’s basketball team and instead devote this space to my other March Madness – my trip to Cancun.
It all begins with the packing, and I come from a long line of over-packers. One year my parents were headed to the Catskills for a week of R&R. I saw my mother piling clothes on top of an already impossible to close suitcase and asked if she was finished packing. No, she replied, noting that my father’s things would still have to be added. When I questioned how she planned to put them in, she studied the suitcase, looked back at me and replied, “I’ll rearrange the shoes.”
Clearly, Mom set the example for me in packing. The day before I left, I did a “dry fit” of the carry-on – the CARRY-ON! – which had to hold two cameras (photo and video, to cover the wedding I was attending), a change of clothes, bathing suit and sweater (in case the luggage is lost you still have to be able to hit the beach, and it could be cold or hot), multiple books (in case you get stranded in the airport you must be prepared to read for days), and a full week’s supply of medication, each in its original bottle lest there be doubt that the drugs are all mine and all prescribed. Then, I carefully laid out the clothing I had selected for the six days I would be away, as well as extra clothing in case travel arrangements were changed and I was forced to stay longer – like a week longer, for example.
By the time I was finished laying out the outfits (and mind you, this was a beach wedding, so flowered shirts, shorts and flip-flops were the order of the day), my bedroom looked like the dressing room at Loehman’s after a clearance sale, clothing strewn everywhere, some with tags still attached (we women like to evaluate our purchases, just in case we find something else we like better, and we keep the tags on until the last minute, just in case we want to take the original choice back; it’s the joy of the hunt, you know).
Surprisingly, everything made it into the suitcase, and I congratulated myself for the sudden spurt of packing efficiency. Of course, I couldn’t get the suitcase down the stairs, but it was packed neatly and efficiently.
But how was the trip, you wonder (unless by now you really don’t care)? And, more importantly, did you wear everything (what do you think?)? The trip was great. I used my 12 years of forgotten Spanish every day to say “Hola” to the waiters and hotel staff, all of whom speak English much better than I speak Spanish. Besides, when I cleverly asked for directions in what must have sounded like flawless Spanish, I got them back – in Spanish, of course – and I couldn’t understand them. The universal signals for left and right as well as, ”I’ll take the check, please,” came in handy, as they always do. The weather was beautiful, the accommodations excellent, the food tasty and plentiful, and the wedding – with the beach in the background – truly memorable. I gave my retirement gift from Johnson & Johnson – my new Nikon camera – a workout, shooting hundreds of photos of sunrises and sunsets, sand and water (since I missed my photography class, I figured I better have something to show for my absence). So, except for the fact that the straws at the swim-up bar were not bendable and were so long that I had to raise myself out of the water even briefly to sip my frozen drink with fruit and umbrella, the conditions were more than just a bit tolerable.
Repacking was easy (you know EVERYTHING is going into the suitcase on the way back) and the return home comfortable and relatively quick. I was asleep before the plane took off. But arriving home and getting that suitcase back upstairs – THAT, my friends, was March Madness.
PS – Since Rutgers made it to the Final Four, I will be packing again and heading to Cleveland to cheer on the team. Let’s see how much I can cram into that carry-on. Packing should be easy – least I know that everything I wear will be red.
It all begins with the packing, and I come from a long line of over-packers. One year my parents were headed to the Catskills for a week of R&R. I saw my mother piling clothes on top of an already impossible to close suitcase and asked if she was finished packing. No, she replied, noting that my father’s things would still have to be added. When I questioned how she planned to put them in, she studied the suitcase, looked back at me and replied, “I’ll rearrange the shoes.”
Clearly, Mom set the example for me in packing. The day before I left, I did a “dry fit” of the carry-on – the CARRY-ON! – which had to hold two cameras (photo and video, to cover the wedding I was attending), a change of clothes, bathing suit and sweater (in case the luggage is lost you still have to be able to hit the beach, and it could be cold or hot), multiple books (in case you get stranded in the airport you must be prepared to read for days), and a full week’s supply of medication, each in its original bottle lest there be doubt that the drugs are all mine and all prescribed. Then, I carefully laid out the clothing I had selected for the six days I would be away, as well as extra clothing in case travel arrangements were changed and I was forced to stay longer – like a week longer, for example.
By the time I was finished laying out the outfits (and mind you, this was a beach wedding, so flowered shirts, shorts and flip-flops were the order of the day), my bedroom looked like the dressing room at Loehman’s after a clearance sale, clothing strewn everywhere, some with tags still attached (we women like to evaluate our purchases, just in case we find something else we like better, and we keep the tags on until the last minute, just in case we want to take the original choice back; it’s the joy of the hunt, you know).
Surprisingly, everything made it into the suitcase, and I congratulated myself for the sudden spurt of packing efficiency. Of course, I couldn’t get the suitcase down the stairs, but it was packed neatly and efficiently.
But how was the trip, you wonder (unless by now you really don’t care)? And, more importantly, did you wear everything (what do you think?)? The trip was great. I used my 12 years of forgotten Spanish every day to say “Hola” to the waiters and hotel staff, all of whom speak English much better than I speak Spanish. Besides, when I cleverly asked for directions in what must have sounded like flawless Spanish, I got them back – in Spanish, of course – and I couldn’t understand them. The universal signals for left and right as well as, ”I’ll take the check, please,” came in handy, as they always do. The weather was beautiful, the accommodations excellent, the food tasty and plentiful, and the wedding – with the beach in the background – truly memorable. I gave my retirement gift from Johnson & Johnson – my new Nikon camera – a workout, shooting hundreds of photos of sunrises and sunsets, sand and water (since I missed my photography class, I figured I better have something to show for my absence). So, except for the fact that the straws at the swim-up bar were not bendable and were so long that I had to raise myself out of the water even briefly to sip my frozen drink with fruit and umbrella, the conditions were more than just a bit tolerable.
Repacking was easy (you know EVERYTHING is going into the suitcase on the way back) and the return home comfortable and relatively quick. I was asleep before the plane took off. But arriving home and getting that suitcase back upstairs – THAT, my friends, was March Madness.
PS – Since Rutgers made it to the Final Four, I will be packing again and heading to Cleveland to cheer on the team. Let’s see how much I can cram into that carry-on. Packing should be easy – least I know that everything I wear will be red.
Mamma Mia - July, 2008
After seeing the debacle that is the movie version of the stage musical “Mamma Mia,” one can only hope that Billy Crystal hosts the Oscars again next year. God knows he’ll have all the material he needs – and then some. Not since Lucy staged her own musical, “The Pleasant Peasant,” (also remembered as “Queen of the Gypsies”) on “I Love Lucy” has a musical seemed so disarmingly bad. “Mamma Mia” makes “Hairspray” look like “My Fair Lady.”
My favorite sister (henceforth referred to as FS) and I took advantage of a free night together to see her (former) favorite actress, Meryl Streep, in the ABBA-inspired musical. Having seen the show on Broadway, I knew the plot was not exactly like the screenplay of “Citizen Kane”, so I didn’t go in expecting to be blown away by the story. I was blown away, however, but not in a good way. Meryl looked like she was having fun, which meant that: A) She really WAS having fun; B) She actually is the world’s best actress and her performance in this film – looking happy most of the time – is proof of profound theatrical chops; or C) Anyone can be happy spending time on a Greek island while getting a big paycheck. “I can only hope she did it for a lark,” lamented my disappointed sister.
Meryl is joined by a post-James Bond Pierce Brosnan, who looked more shaken than stirred. Every time it looked like he was about to break into song, I kept muttering, “Please, don’t sing,” the way you would at a wedding when some drunk guest gets up to warble the words to “Feelings.” Chagrin abounded every time he opened his mouth. Really, didn’t anyone in charge of producing this thing (thanks, Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson) listen to Pierce’s singing? Get Marnie Nixon, get anyone, to dub in his songs, please. He was actually painful to hear. I kept rooting for the Greek chorus to chime in and hoping the volume on the background singers would go to 11.
As for Meryl’s female accomplices – I mean co-stars – Christine Baranski played essentially the same character she played in the Cybill Shepherd TV sitcom “Cybill” of a few years back, a sardonic drunk capable of simultaneously knocking back a martini while knocking down anyone near her. British actress Julie Walters, star of the much appreciated “Educating Rita,” played Streep’s other friend from her days in the fictitious singing trio Donna and the Dynamos (FS and I assumed Beyonce and Queen Latifah were unavailable). In this role, Julie bears a uncanny resemblance to former tennis great Billie Jean King. If one of the male co-stars had looked anything like Bobby Riggs, I doubt I could have made it through the whole movie.
Without spoiling the story here (ha!), suffice to say that the thin plot is loosely constructed around a series of ABBA songs, some of which make sense in the dramatic structure (and I use that term very loosely) and many of which just seem randomly placed. Musicals are awkward by nature. Seldom in real life do we break out in song. But we can, as an audience, usually accept the inclusion of music (especially good music; see “West Side Story,” where you don’t mind the warring Sharks and Jets trying to out sing and dance each other) when it moves the plot forward, dramatizes the emotions of the characters or somehow relates to the story. When the “creators” of this musical couldn’t find a place for the ABBA song “Waterloo,” they simply tacked it on to an end-of-movie performance by Donna and the Dynamos (which, to be fair, was the same treatment used in the Broadway version). Really, you haven’t lived until you have seen late-middle-aged people prancing around stage (I’d call it dancing, but that would be a stretch) in disco-era get-ups and platform shoes. It seemed to me they had each met their personal Waterloo at that point. All I know is that my FS says she’ll never again be able to hear an ABBA song without laughing. I’m not sure that’s what the producers – or ABBA – had in mind.
During the course of the movie, my FS noticed a man a few rows ahead of us texting on his cell phone. “He’s probably writing ‘HELP, get me out of here,’” I suggested. As we exited, FS spotted a teenaged boy and his father leaving the theater. “I wonder what the kid did to deserve this,” she sighed. We made a mental note to buy the DVD and threaten her son with watching it to deter any possible bad behavior, though DYFS might weigh in on this form of cruel and unusual punishment.
In high school, Meryl Streep took a typing class taught by my former colleague, Marcia Bower, a one-time business teacher. Just think, I mused to my FS, if Meryl had been a better typing student, we could have been spared this performance. “I don’t think Meryl will need to clear off the mantle for another Oscar,” she replied, adding, “What could she have been thinking?”
My father always taught us to find something nice to say, so in that spirit, I can tell you the setting and shots of the Mediterranean were very pretty, that the girl who plays Meryl’s daughter is pretty good, it looked like the cast – especially Meryl – had a lot of fun doing this movie, and that a lot of theater-goers will find this film entertaining. For me, this was great grist for my monthly mill. And I doubt anyone in that theater had a better time than me and my favorite sister.
My favorite sister (henceforth referred to as FS) and I took advantage of a free night together to see her (former) favorite actress, Meryl Streep, in the ABBA-inspired musical. Having seen the show on Broadway, I knew the plot was not exactly like the screenplay of “Citizen Kane”, so I didn’t go in expecting to be blown away by the story. I was blown away, however, but not in a good way. Meryl looked like she was having fun, which meant that: A) She really WAS having fun; B) She actually is the world’s best actress and her performance in this film – looking happy most of the time – is proof of profound theatrical chops; or C) Anyone can be happy spending time on a Greek island while getting a big paycheck. “I can only hope she did it for a lark,” lamented my disappointed sister.
Meryl is joined by a post-James Bond Pierce Brosnan, who looked more shaken than stirred. Every time it looked like he was about to break into song, I kept muttering, “Please, don’t sing,” the way you would at a wedding when some drunk guest gets up to warble the words to “Feelings.” Chagrin abounded every time he opened his mouth. Really, didn’t anyone in charge of producing this thing (thanks, Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson) listen to Pierce’s singing? Get Marnie Nixon, get anyone, to dub in his songs, please. He was actually painful to hear. I kept rooting for the Greek chorus to chime in and hoping the volume on the background singers would go to 11.
As for Meryl’s female accomplices – I mean co-stars – Christine Baranski played essentially the same character she played in the Cybill Shepherd TV sitcom “Cybill” of a few years back, a sardonic drunk capable of simultaneously knocking back a martini while knocking down anyone near her. British actress Julie Walters, star of the much appreciated “Educating Rita,” played Streep’s other friend from her days in the fictitious singing trio Donna and the Dynamos (FS and I assumed Beyonce and Queen Latifah were unavailable). In this role, Julie bears a uncanny resemblance to former tennis great Billie Jean King. If one of the male co-stars had looked anything like Bobby Riggs, I doubt I could have made it through the whole movie.
Without spoiling the story here (ha!), suffice to say that the thin plot is loosely constructed around a series of ABBA songs, some of which make sense in the dramatic structure (and I use that term very loosely) and many of which just seem randomly placed. Musicals are awkward by nature. Seldom in real life do we break out in song. But we can, as an audience, usually accept the inclusion of music (especially good music; see “West Side Story,” where you don’t mind the warring Sharks and Jets trying to out sing and dance each other) when it moves the plot forward, dramatizes the emotions of the characters or somehow relates to the story. When the “creators” of this musical couldn’t find a place for the ABBA song “Waterloo,” they simply tacked it on to an end-of-movie performance by Donna and the Dynamos (which, to be fair, was the same treatment used in the Broadway version). Really, you haven’t lived until you have seen late-middle-aged people prancing around stage (I’d call it dancing, but that would be a stretch) in disco-era get-ups and platform shoes. It seemed to me they had each met their personal Waterloo at that point. All I know is that my FS says she’ll never again be able to hear an ABBA song without laughing. I’m not sure that’s what the producers – or ABBA – had in mind.
During the course of the movie, my FS noticed a man a few rows ahead of us texting on his cell phone. “He’s probably writing ‘HELP, get me out of here,’” I suggested. As we exited, FS spotted a teenaged boy and his father leaving the theater. “I wonder what the kid did to deserve this,” she sighed. We made a mental note to buy the DVD and threaten her son with watching it to deter any possible bad behavior, though DYFS might weigh in on this form of cruel and unusual punishment.
In high school, Meryl Streep took a typing class taught by my former colleague, Marcia Bower, a one-time business teacher. Just think, I mused to my FS, if Meryl had been a better typing student, we could have been spared this performance. “I don’t think Meryl will need to clear off the mantle for another Oscar,” she replied, adding, “What could she have been thinking?”
My father always taught us to find something nice to say, so in that spirit, I can tell you the setting and shots of the Mediterranean were very pretty, that the girl who plays Meryl’s daughter is pretty good, it looked like the cast – especially Meryl – had a lot of fun doing this movie, and that a lot of theater-goers will find this film entertaining. For me, this was great grist for my monthly mill. And I doubt anyone in that theater had a better time than me and my favorite sister.
Just Wondering - May, 2008
Where’s my sock? It’s not in the hamper, the washer or the dryer. Is it inside the corner of the sheet? Or did it find an escape route? Has my sock made it to the great outdoors? Did it aspire to greater heights, like being a windsock? How did it get out of jail free? I picture the scene in “Shawshank Redemption” (one of my favorite movies), where Tim Robbins makes it through 500 yards of sewage to escape from prison, ends up in a pool of water, rips off his shirt and hollers to the sky because he is finally free. I realize this might not be as dramatic when the protagonist is a sock, but it kind of conjures up that image. At least to me. Too much time on my hands, I know.
Why do I have to keep straightening the pictures hanging on the wall of the bathroom? It’s not like I live in an earthquake zone, where things shake, rattle and roll constantly. But three pictures in this one particular room seem to move around. What’s that about?
For that matter, why does the rug next to my bed move? It is on the carpet, which you would think would keep it in place, but doesn’t.
Why can’t all credit card machines be the same? Some you have to sign on the machine, some require signing on paper, some require no signing at all. You have to hold the card this way or that way. Can’t all of these devices be the same? It would certainly save time.
I changed four light bulbs in three lamps recently. Why do they seem to burn out at the same time? I can understand the two bulbs in one lamp, since they are on at the same time, but how did the lamp in the family room know to burn out the day before the one in the living room? I have the same issue with batteries, too.
Do you wake up with a song running though your mind that you can’t get out of your head? I either wake up with one or one pops into my head and I can’t get rid of it all day. My repertoire of these songs is nothing if not strange. A sample:
Daddy’s Little Girl
I’ll Tumble For You (Boy George)
Wabash Cannonball
Baby, I’m a Want You (Bread).
Besame Mucho
Theme from Flashdance (What a Feeling)
Billy, Don’t Be a Hero (Maybe because Billy Crystal signed a one-day contract and appeared in a spring training game for the Yankees?)
How Lovely to Be a Woman (from Bye, Bye Birdie; this makes no sense)
Wouldn’t some scientist want to monitor my brain for these songs alone?
My electric toothbrush died recently, so I went on-line to get a new one. At Amazon they list several models, which are available new and used. USED? Who wants a used toothbrush? What’s the text say? “Barely used, nearly new, one owner, low mileage.” Even just the replacement heads are available new and used. Yuck.
In case you were wondering, my GPS system and I are still having “relationship issues.” Driving along an interstate not long ago, I apparently neglected to obey an unspoken command. She freaked out, declaring, “recalculating” four times in a row. In GPS parlance, that’s something akin to “Houston, we have a problem.” She then directed me to make an immediate left. Hey, I told her – and out loud, at that – I am on an interstate highway. There are no lefts here! The fact that I am writing this will lead you to believe that I am no longer lost, which is true. But we still aren’t speaking. As for me, I’m sticking close to home.
Finally, I am still wondering why the Macy’s 1-Day sale takes place on two days.
Why do I have to keep straightening the pictures hanging on the wall of the bathroom? It’s not like I live in an earthquake zone, where things shake, rattle and roll constantly. But three pictures in this one particular room seem to move around. What’s that about?
For that matter, why does the rug next to my bed move? It is on the carpet, which you would think would keep it in place, but doesn’t.
Why can’t all credit card machines be the same? Some you have to sign on the machine, some require signing on paper, some require no signing at all. You have to hold the card this way or that way. Can’t all of these devices be the same? It would certainly save time.
I changed four light bulbs in three lamps recently. Why do they seem to burn out at the same time? I can understand the two bulbs in one lamp, since they are on at the same time, but how did the lamp in the family room know to burn out the day before the one in the living room? I have the same issue with batteries, too.
Do you wake up with a song running though your mind that you can’t get out of your head? I either wake up with one or one pops into my head and I can’t get rid of it all day. My repertoire of these songs is nothing if not strange. A sample:
Daddy’s Little Girl
I’ll Tumble For You (Boy George)
Wabash Cannonball
Baby, I’m a Want You (Bread).
Besame Mucho
Theme from Flashdance (What a Feeling)
Billy, Don’t Be a Hero (Maybe because Billy Crystal signed a one-day contract and appeared in a spring training game for the Yankees?)
How Lovely to Be a Woman (from Bye, Bye Birdie; this makes no sense)
Wouldn’t some scientist want to monitor my brain for these songs alone?
My electric toothbrush died recently, so I went on-line to get a new one. At Amazon they list several models, which are available new and used. USED? Who wants a used toothbrush? What’s the text say? “Barely used, nearly new, one owner, low mileage.” Even just the replacement heads are available new and used. Yuck.
In case you were wondering, my GPS system and I are still having “relationship issues.” Driving along an interstate not long ago, I apparently neglected to obey an unspoken command. She freaked out, declaring, “recalculating” four times in a row. In GPS parlance, that’s something akin to “Houston, we have a problem.” She then directed me to make an immediate left. Hey, I told her – and out loud, at that – I am on an interstate highway. There are no lefts here! The fact that I am writing this will lead you to believe that I am no longer lost, which is true. But we still aren’t speaking. As for me, I’m sticking close to home.
Finally, I am still wondering why the Macy’s 1-Day sale takes place on two days.
Gracie - April, 2007
I know I’m not alone in this. We’ve all heard of people who treat their pets like family (and sometimes better, but that’s another story). There are those folks prone to talking to their plants (“Hello, Fern. How was your day?”). Yet others find themselves giving human characteristics to inanimate objects (think Tom Hanks and Wilson, the volleyball, in “Castaway.”) In my case, it’s Gracie, my 10-year old Mercedes E320.
Named after Grace Slick, Gracie was admittedly a mid-life crisis purchase (if you consider I was 46 at the time, I guess that means I expect to live for a looooong time). Almost immediately, she seemed to assert a bit of an attitude. You know, the “I’m a Mercedes and you aren’t” kind of look. She was cool, and she was smug. She wore her Mercedes hood ornament with pride, unimpressed by proliferating Hummers, Lexuses and bulky SUVs.
Now middle-aged herself, Gracie doesn’t get out as much as she used to, and, like her owner, she’s showing some signs of age (God, I hope she can’t read this…). Her tape player doesn’t work anymore, but who uses cassettes anyway? She began to retain water a few years ago if I drove her in the rain, which meant we had something in common. Her cup holder – rarely used since I don’t drink coffee – mysteriously broke, and she got a cleft in her chin from the trailer hitch of the car ahead of her that backed up without warning. She somehow attracted a rock, which had to have been from a meteor, on the New Jersey Turnpike, so she has a flaw in her windshield. We have even more in common these days: We both have a few leaks and need some cosmetic work.
The 2004 addition of little sister Sunny Sebring, a convertible, kind of took the wind out of Gracie’s sails. I could see her sneer at her similar but not quite the same silver-colored partner in the now crowded garage. Gracie, the queen of the castle, was put in the role of workhorse. She became the “family car,” the one with the bigger trunk, so she would be asked to haul top soil and mulch in the spring.
The other night, after a long “rest,” Gracie asserted herself again. With Sunny Sebring out for service, Gracie refused to leave the garage. “Ignore me?” she virtually hissed, as she adamantly would not turn over, like her owner on a rainy day. The Mercedes doctor made a house call the next day and replaced her battery with a real Mercedes battery, not the “after-market” version I had compromised on out of necessity the last time around. The next day she went for the dreaded NJ State Inspection, a chance to validate her worth. Imagine her dismay when the inspector slapped a bright pink “Rejected” sticker on her. Her gas cap is too old, he said, and her emissions are, well, let’s just say they are unacceptable. Such ignominy for the old girl. I swear she gave me the same look that cat owners get when they come home late and find a treasured vase broken on the floor, the cat standing defiantly nearby.
So, it’s all my fault. I know. I understand, I told her, and promised not to let her go so long next time without the TLC she deserves. We’re both getting older, not better. She hasn’t turned 100 (thousand miles) yet, and we still have more adventures to share and miles to go before we sleep.
Just don’t tell me she’s only a car, OK?
Named after Grace Slick, Gracie was admittedly a mid-life crisis purchase (if you consider I was 46 at the time, I guess that means I expect to live for a looooong time). Almost immediately, she seemed to assert a bit of an attitude. You know, the “I’m a Mercedes and you aren’t” kind of look. She was cool, and she was smug. She wore her Mercedes hood ornament with pride, unimpressed by proliferating Hummers, Lexuses and bulky SUVs.
Now middle-aged herself, Gracie doesn’t get out as much as she used to, and, like her owner, she’s showing some signs of age (God, I hope she can’t read this…). Her tape player doesn’t work anymore, but who uses cassettes anyway? She began to retain water a few years ago if I drove her in the rain, which meant we had something in common. Her cup holder – rarely used since I don’t drink coffee – mysteriously broke, and she got a cleft in her chin from the trailer hitch of the car ahead of her that backed up without warning. She somehow attracted a rock, which had to have been from a meteor, on the New Jersey Turnpike, so she has a flaw in her windshield. We have even more in common these days: We both have a few leaks and need some cosmetic work.
The 2004 addition of little sister Sunny Sebring, a convertible, kind of took the wind out of Gracie’s sails. I could see her sneer at her similar but not quite the same silver-colored partner in the now crowded garage. Gracie, the queen of the castle, was put in the role of workhorse. She became the “family car,” the one with the bigger trunk, so she would be asked to haul top soil and mulch in the spring.
The other night, after a long “rest,” Gracie asserted herself again. With Sunny Sebring out for service, Gracie refused to leave the garage. “Ignore me?” she virtually hissed, as she adamantly would not turn over, like her owner on a rainy day. The Mercedes doctor made a house call the next day and replaced her battery with a real Mercedes battery, not the “after-market” version I had compromised on out of necessity the last time around. The next day she went for the dreaded NJ State Inspection, a chance to validate her worth. Imagine her dismay when the inspector slapped a bright pink “Rejected” sticker on her. Her gas cap is too old, he said, and her emissions are, well, let’s just say they are unacceptable. Such ignominy for the old girl. I swear she gave me the same look that cat owners get when they come home late and find a treasured vase broken on the floor, the cat standing defiantly nearby.
So, it’s all my fault. I know. I understand, I told her, and promised not to let her go so long next time without the TLC she deserves. We’re both getting older, not better. She hasn’t turned 100 (thousand miles) yet, and we still have more adventures to share and miles to go before we sleep.
Just don’t tell me she’s only a car, OK?
Don't Tell Me Where to Go - January, 2008
Many years ago, the late, great Sylvia Gordon (my dear mother) and I ventured out on the highway for a trek to Long Island for a family wedding. It was to be a long drive, but I was armed with directions and a co-pilot, Mom, who grasped them tightly in her hand. After the expensive repair and tow following a flat tire in Hillside, NJ, many miles from planned our overnight stay in a motel, at long last we landed on the Long Island Expressway. Our exit was about 100 numbers from our initial location, but somehow Mom felt it necessary to begin reading them off one by one. “OK,” she said, “here’s exit 17.” After about 10 references to exits, I couldn’t take it anymore and asked her to refrain from counting them off again until we got within the last five.
So is it any wonder why I resisted getting a GPS system?
Given the fact that I have a total lack of the Piscataway gene and have gotten lost every time I have had a Rutgers Cagers Club meeting at Charley Brown’s, despite using MapQuest for directions, it seemed a necessity to succumb to the wonders of modern technology. Who knew when John Glenn first orbited the earth that his pioneering work would eventually lead to the launch of satellites that can land me in Piscataway?
My impression of a GPS system was that it would be a little machine that would start calling out the exits far from the destination, a la Mom. Turns out that isn’t quite the case after all. Oh, she (AKA “Sally Garmin;” anyone who speaks to me that regularly has to have a name) gives me the countdown and distance, followed by what could be considered a “you’re coming up on it soon” warning, and then finishes up with the directive to turn, so that’s about three orders, far better than Mom’s counting the exits on the Long Island Expressway. So far so good.
I can’t help but notice that she sounds just a tad impatient when I get an order to turn but defer to the red light and wait. And worse, fail to follow the directive, and she gets downright testy, displaying an attitude and tone somewhere between disgust and disdain when I decide to follow another route. “Recalculating,” she virtually hisses at me as she rolls her virtual eyes and figures out how to get me back on track. I could swear I heard her mumble, “Recalculating, you idiot. Can’t you follow my simple directions? Sure, miss the turn and I’ll still have to get you out of this mess.” Once she sent me one way on the way there and dictated a different route for the return trip. I often do that, just to make the trip more interesting, but I wondered why Sally felt the need to show she had more than one trick up her sleeve.
When Sally speaks, she has a bit of an accent, somewhat affected and something akin to Martha Stewart, the native of Nutley, NJ, who intones the tone of tony Connecticut when she speaks. Or perhaps a better comparison is to Tina Turner, from Nutbush, Tennessee, who affects a European accent when she speaks. It is true that I don’t know from where Sally Garmin hails, but, babe, you’re in NJ, so try to fit in with us Jersey girls, will ya?
I have this vision of Sally and her cohorts firing themselves up at night and swapping stories via satellite about the stupidity of their owners. “Mine can’t tell his left from his right,” one would offer, while another would counter with, “You wouldn’t believe how far off course mine went today,” adding with a smirk, “again – in Piscataway.”
So is it any wonder why I resisted getting a GPS system?
Given the fact that I have a total lack of the Piscataway gene and have gotten lost every time I have had a Rutgers Cagers Club meeting at Charley Brown’s, despite using MapQuest for directions, it seemed a necessity to succumb to the wonders of modern technology. Who knew when John Glenn first orbited the earth that his pioneering work would eventually lead to the launch of satellites that can land me in Piscataway?
My impression of a GPS system was that it would be a little machine that would start calling out the exits far from the destination, a la Mom. Turns out that isn’t quite the case after all. Oh, she (AKA “Sally Garmin;” anyone who speaks to me that regularly has to have a name) gives me the countdown and distance, followed by what could be considered a “you’re coming up on it soon” warning, and then finishes up with the directive to turn, so that’s about three orders, far better than Mom’s counting the exits on the Long Island Expressway. So far so good.
I can’t help but notice that she sounds just a tad impatient when I get an order to turn but defer to the red light and wait. And worse, fail to follow the directive, and she gets downright testy, displaying an attitude and tone somewhere between disgust and disdain when I decide to follow another route. “Recalculating,” she virtually hisses at me as she rolls her virtual eyes and figures out how to get me back on track. I could swear I heard her mumble, “Recalculating, you idiot. Can’t you follow my simple directions? Sure, miss the turn and I’ll still have to get you out of this mess.” Once she sent me one way on the way there and dictated a different route for the return trip. I often do that, just to make the trip more interesting, but I wondered why Sally felt the need to show she had more than one trick up her sleeve.
When Sally speaks, she has a bit of an accent, somewhat affected and something akin to Martha Stewart, the native of Nutley, NJ, who intones the tone of tony Connecticut when she speaks. Or perhaps a better comparison is to Tina Turner, from Nutbush, Tennessee, who affects a European accent when she speaks. It is true that I don’t know from where Sally Garmin hails, but, babe, you’re in NJ, so try to fit in with us Jersey girls, will ya?
I have this vision of Sally and her cohorts firing themselves up at night and swapping stories via satellite about the stupidity of their owners. “Mine can’t tell his left from his right,” one would offer, while another would counter with, “You wouldn’t believe how far off course mine went today,” adding with a smirk, “again – in Piscataway.”
Food for Thought - November, 2008
I hate to sound all Grinchy on this day before Thanksgiving, but this whole holiday thing gets to be a bit much. Here’s what I mean.
Kohl’s, which has a sale going practically every day of the year, is advertising a 4 AM start time on Black Friday to mark the beginning of the shopping season. Believe me, if I show up anywhere at 4 AM, it is more likely to be the emergency room, because I am either dying or I have lost my mind. What on earth would I need to buy sooooooo badly that I would get to a store at 4 AM? I can only imagine the cranky cashiers forced to come in at that ungodly hour. And to get up that early would require me to set my alarm for 3ish, at which time I would be jolted from my slumber by the Christmas music that the local station has been playing non-stop since November 15th. Please, can’t I get the news and weather without Burl Ives’ warbling?
Every holiday season is marked by the same question: “What do you want for the holiday?” Good question. I don’t know. When I need something, I buy it. And I’d rather buy something for someone when I see it and I know they will love it than be forced to find what they have requested or compromise by buying something just to give a friend a gift. I used to buy a ton of gifts. Now I buy far fewer gifts, and many of them are gift cards. That’s like saying, “Go shopping for yourself because I am devoid of ideas.”
So let’s think about skipping the gifty-gifts, the gift cards and the stuff we already have too many of or no need for and give something better. Let’s go out to dinner, go to a movie, stay home and watch a DVD or do something together that we would both enjoy. I’ll give you a calendar or note cards of photos that I have taken or make a CD of songs I know you like. You can bake me some cookies or bring me a bunch of fresh flowers. Or let’s make a donation to a charity. The shelves of the food banks are nearly bare, and some soup kitchens have been forced to cut out some of the meals they normally serve. How can we complain about how fattening the holiday season is when there are people who count on a food bank for the essentials, not the chestnut stuffing? I read about a project to send shoeboxes of supplies and goodies to our soldiers. And each year the Johnson & Johnson communications department generously donates clothing and supplies to help foster children, especially older kids who have shuttled from home to home, often without a bag to hold their meager possessions. My former colleagues contribute their time to shop and stuff the bags with everything from pajamas and socks to shirts and sweaters.
Oprah had a woman on her show today who gave each of her four grown children a box of items she had saved from their childhood. A piece of carpet, a Mother’s Day card, a picture drawn in school were among the items included. Her grown children loved the reminders of how their mother had treasured each of these possessions and had preserved them Sure, it took her years to save and prepare the boxes, but it still had to be better than going to the Kohl’s sale at 4 AM and buying a bunch of stuff whose best attribute is that it was a bargain.
Isn’t that what the holidays should be about?
I wish you and your family a happy Thanksgiving and some food for thought.
Kohl’s, which has a sale going practically every day of the year, is advertising a 4 AM start time on Black Friday to mark the beginning of the shopping season. Believe me, if I show up anywhere at 4 AM, it is more likely to be the emergency room, because I am either dying or I have lost my mind. What on earth would I need to buy sooooooo badly that I would get to a store at 4 AM? I can only imagine the cranky cashiers forced to come in at that ungodly hour. And to get up that early would require me to set my alarm for 3ish, at which time I would be jolted from my slumber by the Christmas music that the local station has been playing non-stop since November 15th. Please, can’t I get the news and weather without Burl Ives’ warbling?
Every holiday season is marked by the same question: “What do you want for the holiday?” Good question. I don’t know. When I need something, I buy it. And I’d rather buy something for someone when I see it and I know they will love it than be forced to find what they have requested or compromise by buying something just to give a friend a gift. I used to buy a ton of gifts. Now I buy far fewer gifts, and many of them are gift cards. That’s like saying, “Go shopping for yourself because I am devoid of ideas.”
So let’s think about skipping the gifty-gifts, the gift cards and the stuff we already have too many of or no need for and give something better. Let’s go out to dinner, go to a movie, stay home and watch a DVD or do something together that we would both enjoy. I’ll give you a calendar or note cards of photos that I have taken or make a CD of songs I know you like. You can bake me some cookies or bring me a bunch of fresh flowers. Or let’s make a donation to a charity. The shelves of the food banks are nearly bare, and some soup kitchens have been forced to cut out some of the meals they normally serve. How can we complain about how fattening the holiday season is when there are people who count on a food bank for the essentials, not the chestnut stuffing? I read about a project to send shoeboxes of supplies and goodies to our soldiers. And each year the Johnson & Johnson communications department generously donates clothing and supplies to help foster children, especially older kids who have shuttled from home to home, often without a bag to hold their meager possessions. My former colleagues contribute their time to shop and stuff the bags with everything from pajamas and socks to shirts and sweaters.
Oprah had a woman on her show today who gave each of her four grown children a box of items she had saved from their childhood. A piece of carpet, a Mother’s Day card, a picture drawn in school were among the items included. Her grown children loved the reminders of how their mother had treasured each of these possessions and had preserved them Sure, it took her years to save and prepare the boxes, but it still had to be better than going to the Kohl’s sale at 4 AM and buying a bunch of stuff whose best attribute is that it was a bargain.
Isn’t that what the holidays should be about?
I wish you and your family a happy Thanksgiving and some food for thought.
Just Ask Me - February, 2007
“Do you have osteoporosis?” asked the woman on the phone.
“No,” I replied.
“Oh,” she intoned, sounding genuinely disappointed.
“Do you take insulin for your diabetes?” she inquired.
“No, just oral medication,” I explained.
“Good,” she said, a bit more cheerily. “We are booked for our diabetes study on Monday, but we’ll call you if there is a cancellation. It pays $150,” she added, a smile in her voice.
See, I thought signing up to participate in market research panels would be a fun way to make money while giving my opinion to strangers. I was always happy to give my opinion to anyone for free, and this represented an opportunity to get PAID for it, which is all the more appealing.
We started off with promise, as a call came in with many questions about purchasing greeting cards. I’m perfect for that study, since I could keep Hallmark in business single-handedly. So when they offered $100 to shop for six cards from three stores and participate in a two-hour panel to discuss them, I jumped at the chance. It was fun. I got to see new cards, rate the ones I would and wouldn’t buy and explain why, and I walked away with $100 cash (plus the cost of the cards) for my efforts, which seemed like easy money for someone who loves to shop.
I looked forward to deep discussions on the effectiveness of dish detergents, to debating flavored vs. regular breadcrumbs, to creating a dialog on Coke vs. Pepsi (the Holy Grail of market research). Instead, after the greeting cards, I’m being steered into more age-appropriate panels. I guess I have reached that demographically undesirable stage of life where no one (except the AARP) cares what I watch on TV, listen to on the radio or see at the movies. I thought the fact that I don’t have osteoporosis was good news, but apparently not to a market research company eager to sign up women my age who suffer from a variety of different ailments. (Once you reach your mid-fifties, everyone either has something, is married to someone who has something or knows someone who has something. The operative word is SOMETHING.)
And while I do have all too many somethings, apparently I don’t have the right somethings to participate in every market research study. Maybe someone will drop out of the diabetes study, or maybe they will need the opinion of a woman in her 50s on “heart-healthy” cereals. Otherwise, I see a future full of opportunities to opine on denture creams, stool softeners and long-term care insurance. Thank goodness, I have no opinions on any of these subjects – at least, not yet.
All I know is that if they want someone with moisturizing experience, I’m ready!
“No,” I replied.
“Oh,” she intoned, sounding genuinely disappointed.
“Do you take insulin for your diabetes?” she inquired.
“No, just oral medication,” I explained.
“Good,” she said, a bit more cheerily. “We are booked for our diabetes study on Monday, but we’ll call you if there is a cancellation. It pays $150,” she added, a smile in her voice.
See, I thought signing up to participate in market research panels would be a fun way to make money while giving my opinion to strangers. I was always happy to give my opinion to anyone for free, and this represented an opportunity to get PAID for it, which is all the more appealing.
We started off with promise, as a call came in with many questions about purchasing greeting cards. I’m perfect for that study, since I could keep Hallmark in business single-handedly. So when they offered $100 to shop for six cards from three stores and participate in a two-hour panel to discuss them, I jumped at the chance. It was fun. I got to see new cards, rate the ones I would and wouldn’t buy and explain why, and I walked away with $100 cash (plus the cost of the cards) for my efforts, which seemed like easy money for someone who loves to shop.
I looked forward to deep discussions on the effectiveness of dish detergents, to debating flavored vs. regular breadcrumbs, to creating a dialog on Coke vs. Pepsi (the Holy Grail of market research). Instead, after the greeting cards, I’m being steered into more age-appropriate panels. I guess I have reached that demographically undesirable stage of life where no one (except the AARP) cares what I watch on TV, listen to on the radio or see at the movies. I thought the fact that I don’t have osteoporosis was good news, but apparently not to a market research company eager to sign up women my age who suffer from a variety of different ailments. (Once you reach your mid-fifties, everyone either has something, is married to someone who has something or knows someone who has something. The operative word is SOMETHING.)
And while I do have all too many somethings, apparently I don’t have the right somethings to participate in every market research study. Maybe someone will drop out of the diabetes study, or maybe they will need the opinion of a woman in her 50s on “heart-healthy” cereals. Otherwise, I see a future full of opportunities to opine on denture creams, stool softeners and long-term care insurance. Thank goodness, I have no opinions on any of these subjects – at least, not yet.
All I know is that if they want someone with moisturizing experience, I’m ready!
Some Things Last Forever - July, 2007
Forget relationships. I’ll tell you what will last forever – and then some. Take, for example, magazines.
A few weeks ago my favorite sister got a call from TV Guide about renewing her subscription.
“But my current subscription expires in 2009,” she explained.
“Suppose I give you the senior citizen’s discount to extend your subscription?” the sly rep offered.
She fell for it, for once happy to have crossed the mid-century mark to read TV Guide for less money than the average 49-year old. By the time the subscription to TV Guide runs out, she will have passed it to her heirs. In fact, she’s still getting the Jewish newspaper, The Speaker, to which my mother subscribed, and she died 18 years ago.
I have a feeling that our subscriptions and other things around us will outlive us. I have subscribed to the Star-Ledger literally since the last century. Whenever I call to stop delivery because I’ll be out of town, they extend the subscription (and usually deliver the paper anyway) – or so they say. When I call to complain that the newspaper wasn’t delivered that day, I’m told they will extend my subscription. I have this vision of newspapers littering the driveway long after I have moved from my current home, or, worse yet, piling up at my final resting place, where, hopefully, they will turn to compost and keep the grass on my grave green and healthier than the occupant just below.
I am so far behind in Newsweek that I just read the one that said George Bush is running for a second term. Yet I can’t throw them out, because I might miss some important news, even if it isn’t quite as newsworthy when I finally read it. By the time I read Consumer Reports, the models of cameras, refrigerators and vacuums they have reviewed have already been replaced by better, cheaper and newer models. But I can’t throw them out. I stopped my subscription to Vanity Fair after copies piled up for 18 months and I didn’t have a two-week block of time available to read them. I can’t tell you how disappointed the numerous representatives were who called me to urge me to continue my subscription. I’ll get the preferred rate, they said, or the professional rate (as what, a professional magazine subscriber? It’s not like I have a waiting room in my house, though with all those old magazines, sometimes it does resemble my doctor’s office.). Finally, I explained that I was no longer “allowed” to get a magazine I didn’t read. They stopped calling, concerned that someone actually had magazine rules. I took the 18-month pile and put it out with my recycling. Don’t tell me I can donate them to a nursing home or senior citizens center, because when I am living in those places, I’ll still have my own magazines to read.
And then there are the hangers. I’ve been busy donating clothing to various charities as I pare down my wardrobe to get rid of the clothes I no longer wear because I don’t work, they are out of style, didn’t fit when I bought them and won’t fit now, or they are enormously shoulder-padded suits I wouldn’t be caught dead in even if I could fit into them again. I’ve been donating the hangers back to my dry cleaner (enough to keep them in business for months), but yet I no sooner take a batch out of the house when I find more. I think they propagate when I’m not around, and I’m certain the proliferation of hangers will continue long after I have checked out. (By the way, the one person who has not as yet gotten over my retirement is my dry cleaner. She keeps asking me if I am going back to work, as she sees her gross proceeds take a serious dip.)
Take paper clips. Once they are out of the box, they are everywhere. I promise you, buy one box and you will have enough clips to last for a lifetime, especially if you clean out files and remove them from your papers. Once they experience that taste of freedom, they start to venture further. I found one recently in my jewelry drawer. Did I confuse it with a pair of earrings? Did I think it was worth insuring? How – and why – did it get there?
All I know is that long after I am gone, my newspaper will continue to arrive each day, someone will find my Newsweek magazine in his or her mailbox, and my family will wonder: What’s with this weird collector of hangers and paper clips?
Footnote:
Last month we ruminated over “Signs of the Times.” Since then I found another sign worthy of inclusion in the discussion. While driving on I-95 in Maryland I spotted an electric sign urging people with problems to call a toll-free talk line. To what kind of problem do you think they were referring? It appeared not to be vehicle-related, judging by the nature of the wording. If you had a problem of a personal nature, would you take to the highway to find help? And finally, with a speed limit of 65 MPH, wouldn’t jotting down that phone number while barreling down the highway cause a truckload of other problems? Just wondering.
A few weeks ago my favorite sister got a call from TV Guide about renewing her subscription.
“But my current subscription expires in 2009,” she explained.
“Suppose I give you the senior citizen’s discount to extend your subscription?” the sly rep offered.
She fell for it, for once happy to have crossed the mid-century mark to read TV Guide for less money than the average 49-year old. By the time the subscription to TV Guide runs out, she will have passed it to her heirs. In fact, she’s still getting the Jewish newspaper, The Speaker, to which my mother subscribed, and she died 18 years ago.
I have a feeling that our subscriptions and other things around us will outlive us. I have subscribed to the Star-Ledger literally since the last century. Whenever I call to stop delivery because I’ll be out of town, they extend the subscription (and usually deliver the paper anyway) – or so they say. When I call to complain that the newspaper wasn’t delivered that day, I’m told they will extend my subscription. I have this vision of newspapers littering the driveway long after I have moved from my current home, or, worse yet, piling up at my final resting place, where, hopefully, they will turn to compost and keep the grass on my grave green and healthier than the occupant just below.
I am so far behind in Newsweek that I just read the one that said George Bush is running for a second term. Yet I can’t throw them out, because I might miss some important news, even if it isn’t quite as newsworthy when I finally read it. By the time I read Consumer Reports, the models of cameras, refrigerators and vacuums they have reviewed have already been replaced by better, cheaper and newer models. But I can’t throw them out. I stopped my subscription to Vanity Fair after copies piled up for 18 months and I didn’t have a two-week block of time available to read them. I can’t tell you how disappointed the numerous representatives were who called me to urge me to continue my subscription. I’ll get the preferred rate, they said, or the professional rate (as what, a professional magazine subscriber? It’s not like I have a waiting room in my house, though with all those old magazines, sometimes it does resemble my doctor’s office.). Finally, I explained that I was no longer “allowed” to get a magazine I didn’t read. They stopped calling, concerned that someone actually had magazine rules. I took the 18-month pile and put it out with my recycling. Don’t tell me I can donate them to a nursing home or senior citizens center, because when I am living in those places, I’ll still have my own magazines to read.
And then there are the hangers. I’ve been busy donating clothing to various charities as I pare down my wardrobe to get rid of the clothes I no longer wear because I don’t work, they are out of style, didn’t fit when I bought them and won’t fit now, or they are enormously shoulder-padded suits I wouldn’t be caught dead in even if I could fit into them again. I’ve been donating the hangers back to my dry cleaner (enough to keep them in business for months), but yet I no sooner take a batch out of the house when I find more. I think they propagate when I’m not around, and I’m certain the proliferation of hangers will continue long after I have checked out. (By the way, the one person who has not as yet gotten over my retirement is my dry cleaner. She keeps asking me if I am going back to work, as she sees her gross proceeds take a serious dip.)
Take paper clips. Once they are out of the box, they are everywhere. I promise you, buy one box and you will have enough clips to last for a lifetime, especially if you clean out files and remove them from your papers. Once they experience that taste of freedom, they start to venture further. I found one recently in my jewelry drawer. Did I confuse it with a pair of earrings? Did I think it was worth insuring? How – and why – did it get there?
All I know is that long after I am gone, my newspaper will continue to arrive each day, someone will find my Newsweek magazine in his or her mailbox, and my family will wonder: What’s with this weird collector of hangers and paper clips?
Footnote:
Last month we ruminated over “Signs of the Times.” Since then I found another sign worthy of inclusion in the discussion. While driving on I-95 in Maryland I spotted an electric sign urging people with problems to call a toll-free talk line. To what kind of problem do you think they were referring? It appeared not to be vehicle-related, judging by the nature of the wording. If you had a problem of a personal nature, would you take to the highway to find help? And finally, with a speed limit of 65 MPH, wouldn’t jotting down that phone number while barreling down the highway cause a truckload of other problems? Just wondering.
Election Special - November, 2008
Thank God it is over. No more “Linda Stender is a spender” TV spots. No more signs littering the road (This morning I found it hard to pull out of the polling place because the proliferation of political signs was blocking my view of the road.). No more political flyers that found their way immediately into the recycling bag. No more pundits and no more reviews of Sarah Palin’s clothing allowance or choice of eyewear. No more pre-recorded calls from candidates. No more people stopping at the house to promote their choice for office. No more “debates” that turned out to be little more than a recitation of stump speeches with little or no regard for the questions posed by moderators.
There has to be a better way. Half the stuff I experienced never told me about the candidate running, just about what was wrong with the opposition. Half the “political consultants” promote their candidate and the other half the opposition but without telling me anything other than we need a change. Really?
So it is over, and someone new will be in charge of the White House. Someone new will be my Congressional representative (the incumbent chose not to run in my district). We might have new freeholders and a new mayor in my town, and the old Senator, might be reelected or might be passed over for a 60-something year old who is 20 years younger.
I am writing this prior to the results, which will dominate the TV tonight (except in my house, where I will be watching old movies and checking the news periodically to learn who won). So this is not about who wins or loses, who is qualified or unqualified and what kind of leader he or she will be. It is strictly an indictment of the political process, its negativity, its cost and its waste of time, money and resources. I was interested this time around in the positions of the candidates, all of which were so poorly articulated that they were drowned out by their own rhetoric. Don’t you, the candidate, want me – the voter, and one with an open mind, no less – to know your views, your record and your choices so I can make a good one? Or do you prefer hyperbole about the opposition that fails to educate me about why I should vote for you?
In the end, I made up my own mind, and while I’m not certain I made all the right choices, I did exercise my right to vote. But I’m not sure that given the process and the current state of the union, that anyone comes out a winner this year.
But at least they will stop calling the house now, and that’s a win for me.
There has to be a better way. Half the stuff I experienced never told me about the candidate running, just about what was wrong with the opposition. Half the “political consultants” promote their candidate and the other half the opposition but without telling me anything other than we need a change. Really?
So it is over, and someone new will be in charge of the White House. Someone new will be my Congressional representative (the incumbent chose not to run in my district). We might have new freeholders and a new mayor in my town, and the old Senator, might be reelected or might be passed over for a 60-something year old who is 20 years younger.
I am writing this prior to the results, which will dominate the TV tonight (except in my house, where I will be watching old movies and checking the news periodically to learn who won). So this is not about who wins or loses, who is qualified or unqualified and what kind of leader he or she will be. It is strictly an indictment of the political process, its negativity, its cost and its waste of time, money and resources. I was interested this time around in the positions of the candidates, all of which were so poorly articulated that they were drowned out by their own rhetoric. Don’t you, the candidate, want me – the voter, and one with an open mind, no less – to know your views, your record and your choices so I can make a good one? Or do you prefer hyperbole about the opposition that fails to educate me about why I should vote for you?
In the end, I made up my own mind, and while I’m not certain I made all the right choices, I did exercise my right to vote. But I’m not sure that given the process and the current state of the union, that anyone comes out a winner this year.
But at least they will stop calling the house now, and that’s a win for me.
Decorating Sense - November, 2007
I have a disease you can only get from watching too much Home & Garden TV (HGTV). It is a combination of a profound feeling of ineptitude and a bit of decorator envy. I battle it with a healthy sense of reality, but I cannot resist the strain.
From what I have seen on TV, I should be doing more to my home. Decorators are able transform any home into Provence. Homeowners are suddenly able to use table saws to build bookcases or fashion drapes out of old bedspreads. You have to wonder on what planet do these people reside, because getting the beautification of our homes done in real life is nothing like what we see on TV.
Each week on ABC’s “Extreme Makeover, Home Edition,” Ty Pennington and his capable crew find some poor family living in what resembles a refrigerator box or suffering from some rare disease so they can perform a miraculous “extreme makeover” on the home in one week while the family is sent off on a luxurious vacation. This “makeover” frequently involves demolishing the house (in which Ty seems to take considerable glee, brandishing a bulldozer like a 5-year old playing in the sandbox with his new trucks). Ty enlists the aid of hundreds of local people – some neighbors, some contractors and tradespeople – who simultaneously descend on the house and make it rise from the ashes into a mansion designed for the special needs of the family. This is a fantastic sight to see, and I often find myself choked up and weepy as the stunned family tours its incredible new home.
But in the real world, where I live, I can’t help but wonder: How did they get the permits and the inspections done in a week? How did they get the carpenters, electricians, plumbers and painters to show up – in the correct sequence and timed just right to complete the project? When was the last time you called for service and even got a call back, or had the person show up when they said they would, or complete the job on time? I have one friend who is still waiting for the air conditioning guy to finish her cooling system and it is now November, so she now needs him to finish the heat. How do Ty & Co. get the furniture delivered in less than eight weeks? And at a time when someone is home and no one gets in the way? And would your general contractor – assuming you ever see him again – decide that in addition to the honor of building your home he will pay off your mortgage? In what fantasy world does this happen?
And it’s not just Ty that makes me notice the difference between TV and real life. On one Home & Garden program the decorating crew spends less than $50 – $50! – to redecorate a room, relying largely on materials already on hand in the homeowners’ garage or basement. Maybe it pays to be a packrat, but do you have enough spare fabric around to slipcover that old couch and make matching drapes? Do the scraps of wood in your garage add up to a new dining room table? And can your leftover paint be used to create a new Tuscan feel in your kitchen?
On another program, where the budget is a more comfortable $500, much of the furniture and many of the accessories come from items found at yard sales for truly bargain prices. These budget-friendly treasures can be used as is or they are miraculously transformed into something that fits perfectly into the new decorating scheme. Who keeps that much stuff around, and, if “Decorating Cents” didn’t show up on your doorstep, what would you do with what will inevitably be labeled junk if you let it keep piling up? Let’s face it, if the homeowners watched and followed the tenets of another HGTV program, “Mission Organization,” that clutter would have been at the landfill by now.
On “Designed to Sell,” first a real estate woman (it is always a woman, and they are looking for bitchy ones at that) comes in and rips apart the home about to be placed on the market. The furniture is shoddy, the kitchen is outdated and the place is always too cluttered, she’ll declare. Then a decorator, two carpenters, the host and the homeowners – following the ideas of the decorator – come in and for under $2,000 they will eliminate all of these problems and make the house attractive to potential buyers. And they perform this miracle in TWO DAYS! I had three rows of tile replaced and it took nearly a week – a day for removing the old tile, a day to tile, a day to grout, a day to seal – and I thought I got off easy.
But then again, I live in the real world. What you see on TV amounts to the Gilligan’s Island of remodeling, where you have to suspend your sense of reality to accept and enjoy any of it. Of course, if an army of skilled craftsmen and interior designers showed up on my doorstep, sent me on a vacation and rebuilt my house, that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?
From what I have seen on TV, I should be doing more to my home. Decorators are able transform any home into Provence. Homeowners are suddenly able to use table saws to build bookcases or fashion drapes out of old bedspreads. You have to wonder on what planet do these people reside, because getting the beautification of our homes done in real life is nothing like what we see on TV.
Each week on ABC’s “Extreme Makeover, Home Edition,” Ty Pennington and his capable crew find some poor family living in what resembles a refrigerator box or suffering from some rare disease so they can perform a miraculous “extreme makeover” on the home in one week while the family is sent off on a luxurious vacation. This “makeover” frequently involves demolishing the house (in which Ty seems to take considerable glee, brandishing a bulldozer like a 5-year old playing in the sandbox with his new trucks). Ty enlists the aid of hundreds of local people – some neighbors, some contractors and tradespeople – who simultaneously descend on the house and make it rise from the ashes into a mansion designed for the special needs of the family. This is a fantastic sight to see, and I often find myself choked up and weepy as the stunned family tours its incredible new home.
But in the real world, where I live, I can’t help but wonder: How did they get the permits and the inspections done in a week? How did they get the carpenters, electricians, plumbers and painters to show up – in the correct sequence and timed just right to complete the project? When was the last time you called for service and even got a call back, or had the person show up when they said they would, or complete the job on time? I have one friend who is still waiting for the air conditioning guy to finish her cooling system and it is now November, so she now needs him to finish the heat. How do Ty & Co. get the furniture delivered in less than eight weeks? And at a time when someone is home and no one gets in the way? And would your general contractor – assuming you ever see him again – decide that in addition to the honor of building your home he will pay off your mortgage? In what fantasy world does this happen?
And it’s not just Ty that makes me notice the difference between TV and real life. On one Home & Garden program the decorating crew spends less than $50 – $50! – to redecorate a room, relying largely on materials already on hand in the homeowners’ garage or basement. Maybe it pays to be a packrat, but do you have enough spare fabric around to slipcover that old couch and make matching drapes? Do the scraps of wood in your garage add up to a new dining room table? And can your leftover paint be used to create a new Tuscan feel in your kitchen?
On another program, where the budget is a more comfortable $500, much of the furniture and many of the accessories come from items found at yard sales for truly bargain prices. These budget-friendly treasures can be used as is or they are miraculously transformed into something that fits perfectly into the new decorating scheme. Who keeps that much stuff around, and, if “Decorating Cents” didn’t show up on your doorstep, what would you do with what will inevitably be labeled junk if you let it keep piling up? Let’s face it, if the homeowners watched and followed the tenets of another HGTV program, “Mission Organization,” that clutter would have been at the landfill by now.
On “Designed to Sell,” first a real estate woman (it is always a woman, and they are looking for bitchy ones at that) comes in and rips apart the home about to be placed on the market. The furniture is shoddy, the kitchen is outdated and the place is always too cluttered, she’ll declare. Then a decorator, two carpenters, the host and the homeowners – following the ideas of the decorator – come in and for under $2,000 they will eliminate all of these problems and make the house attractive to potential buyers. And they perform this miracle in TWO DAYS! I had three rows of tile replaced and it took nearly a week – a day for removing the old tile, a day to tile, a day to grout, a day to seal – and I thought I got off easy.
But then again, I live in the real world. What you see on TV amounts to the Gilligan’s Island of remodeling, where you have to suspend your sense of reality to accept and enjoy any of it. Of course, if an army of skilled craftsmen and interior designers showed up on my doorstep, sent me on a vacation and rebuilt my house, that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?
Chemical Warfare - June, 2008
As some of you know, I moved to a new home last year, one with a pool and spa. All the better to enjoy my retirement, I thought.
My friends without pools relished the idea of lounging on the deck, soaking up the sun and taking a dip in the sparkling water.
My friends with pools had two words for me: “Money pit.”
OK, I was pretty sure that when the water turned green last fall before the pool was closed it probably wouldn’t look pristine blue on opening day. But I wasn’t expecting the Jersey shore in my backyard. I was horrified to see what looked like a brown river in the pool, along with clumps of pine needles (funny how you don’t notice the trees when you first see the pool, until they start falling into the pool, that is). No problem, said Rick the pool guy. And then he described the steps necessary in what amounts to chemical warfare.
You know how when you don’t understand something and someone else is an expert and they start rattling off the 23-step procedure you have to follow, and it sounds so easy – to them? My head was spinning. First there were the four five-gallon drums of chlorine I would have to buy. Unlike Clorox, this stuff in a five-gallon container weighs about 50 pounds. I wondered aloud how I would get the jugs to the backyard, assuming that I could even get them into the car. “Do you have a hand truck?” Rick wanted to know. I bit my lip, thinking, “Look at me. I am a 57-year old Jewish woman. Why on earth would you even think I owned a hand truck?”
Then there is the issue of opening the drums. I wrestled with one last year, but alas, my carpal tunneled hands are weak, and I lost that battle. The good news is that the pool place will sell me a special wrench to open the drums, after my new hand truck and I get them to the pool.
Then Rick wanted to know whether I had a backwash hose, since I would have to go through that process, too. “Have one?” I replied, “I don’t even know what that is.” Rick added that to the running list of supplies I would need, along with a special connector to attach it to the filter. “Slow down,” I pleaded, running inside for a pad to write down the procedure. Every step started with “you just,” and ended with my wondering and worrying about how I could possibly do this, and what the rich folks do to tend to their pools. After all, I signed up for a weekly service, but apparently that doesn’t start until I get the pool ready for service. Sounds to me like cleaning the house before the cleaning lady comes (guilty, your honor).
To add insult to injury, Rick started rattling off mathematical equations for the chemical treatments. Hold on, I said. “No one told me there would be math,” I protested.
Then there was the question of the spa, which he filled with water and then shocked. Apparently shocking the pool and spa is more complicated than my showing up in a bathing suit, which, I assure you, is plenty shocking. This process consists of adding chemicals to the water, not giving it outrageous news. The next step is to drain it and replace the water. “Do you have a submersible pump?” Rick inquired. See answer above to “Do you have a hand truck?” Now that the handyman, Don (another of my ever-growing staff), removed the steps surrounding the spa, which the previous owners installed without thinking about gaining access to the pumps and moving parts of the thing, we could simply attach a hose to the drain and let gravity do its thing – for about six hours, that is. I made a mental note: Put submersible pump on the shopping list. (And I hope those of you who can’t think of gifts for my birthday and the holidays are paying attention.)
I am reminded of my youth, when I would walk home on the path that runs parallel to Peters’ Brook in Somerville. The water could look muddy and filled with rocks, which we often used to cross the brook. Even that body of water didn’t look as revolting as my pool on Opening Day.
Fast forward: After eight – count ‘em, eight – five-gallon containers of chlorine, after regular visits to vacuum and add chemicals by Steve, the pool guy (and there goes my fantasy about a pool boy; you’d have to see Steve to understand), after buying more chemicals than you can imagine, after fishing countless decomposed leaves out of the water with the skimmer, the pool is again blue, clear and ready for use. Just a mere three weeks, $1000+, a bunch of chemicals, equipment and a staff led me to this point. So far I have been in the pool once and in the hot tub three times. If you divide the cost by the number of times the pool and spa have been used so far, we are at about $250 a dip. Pool party, anyone?
My friends without pools relished the idea of lounging on the deck, soaking up the sun and taking a dip in the sparkling water.
My friends with pools had two words for me: “Money pit.”
OK, I was pretty sure that when the water turned green last fall before the pool was closed it probably wouldn’t look pristine blue on opening day. But I wasn’t expecting the Jersey shore in my backyard. I was horrified to see what looked like a brown river in the pool, along with clumps of pine needles (funny how you don’t notice the trees when you first see the pool, until they start falling into the pool, that is). No problem, said Rick the pool guy. And then he described the steps necessary in what amounts to chemical warfare.
You know how when you don’t understand something and someone else is an expert and they start rattling off the 23-step procedure you have to follow, and it sounds so easy – to them? My head was spinning. First there were the four five-gallon drums of chlorine I would have to buy. Unlike Clorox, this stuff in a five-gallon container weighs about 50 pounds. I wondered aloud how I would get the jugs to the backyard, assuming that I could even get them into the car. “Do you have a hand truck?” Rick wanted to know. I bit my lip, thinking, “Look at me. I am a 57-year old Jewish woman. Why on earth would you even think I owned a hand truck?”
Then there is the issue of opening the drums. I wrestled with one last year, but alas, my carpal tunneled hands are weak, and I lost that battle. The good news is that the pool place will sell me a special wrench to open the drums, after my new hand truck and I get them to the pool.
Then Rick wanted to know whether I had a backwash hose, since I would have to go through that process, too. “Have one?” I replied, “I don’t even know what that is.” Rick added that to the running list of supplies I would need, along with a special connector to attach it to the filter. “Slow down,” I pleaded, running inside for a pad to write down the procedure. Every step started with “you just,” and ended with my wondering and worrying about how I could possibly do this, and what the rich folks do to tend to their pools. After all, I signed up for a weekly service, but apparently that doesn’t start until I get the pool ready for service. Sounds to me like cleaning the house before the cleaning lady comes (guilty, your honor).
To add insult to injury, Rick started rattling off mathematical equations for the chemical treatments. Hold on, I said. “No one told me there would be math,” I protested.
Then there was the question of the spa, which he filled with water and then shocked. Apparently shocking the pool and spa is more complicated than my showing up in a bathing suit, which, I assure you, is plenty shocking. This process consists of adding chemicals to the water, not giving it outrageous news. The next step is to drain it and replace the water. “Do you have a submersible pump?” Rick inquired. See answer above to “Do you have a hand truck?” Now that the handyman, Don (another of my ever-growing staff), removed the steps surrounding the spa, which the previous owners installed without thinking about gaining access to the pumps and moving parts of the thing, we could simply attach a hose to the drain and let gravity do its thing – for about six hours, that is. I made a mental note: Put submersible pump on the shopping list. (And I hope those of you who can’t think of gifts for my birthday and the holidays are paying attention.)
I am reminded of my youth, when I would walk home on the path that runs parallel to Peters’ Brook in Somerville. The water could look muddy and filled with rocks, which we often used to cross the brook. Even that body of water didn’t look as revolting as my pool on Opening Day.
Fast forward: After eight – count ‘em, eight – five-gallon containers of chlorine, after regular visits to vacuum and add chemicals by Steve, the pool guy (and there goes my fantasy about a pool boy; you’d have to see Steve to understand), after buying more chemicals than you can imagine, after fishing countless decomposed leaves out of the water with the skimmer, the pool is again blue, clear and ready for use. Just a mere three weeks, $1000+, a bunch of chemicals, equipment and a staff led me to this point. So far I have been in the pool once and in the hot tub three times. If you divide the cost by the number of times the pool and spa have been used so far, we are at about $250 a dip. Pool party, anyone?
Caught Napping - October, 2007
There is nothing like a good nap.
How do I define good? Well, it isn’t about quantity. A good nap can be a 20-minute snooze under the right circumstances. A good nap should be serendipitous, where you find yourself drifting off and you enjoy the ride. You don’t plan a good nap, you just let it happen.
A good nap, like real estate, is about location, location, location. It shouldn’t be in bed, which is where you sleep – or, like many of us, try to sleep, get up, hit the bathroom, try to fall back to sleep and end up with CNN playing in the background (which I have come to realize is better as white noise than trying to lull myself back to sleep by watching infomercials; somehow my judgment at 4 AM is also asleep and I end up buying the 100 greatest soul songs of all time or some can opener than doesn’t work). Personally, I prefer the recliner, though I will occasionally doze on the couch, love seat or a favorite chair, but the recliner is my nap location of choice.
A good nap is where it is quiet and you aren’t interrupted. A good nap is when you don’t even move, where, sometimes the only thing that gets you up is when someone else suddenly appears in the room, when the other team scores a touchdown, or when the credits roll on the movie you were dying to watch and have now completely missed. Sometimes I wake up from a good nap because I am either freezing – all the more reason to always have that throw blanket handy, just in case – or I have to go to the bathroom so badly that my body starts screaming at me.
You might even consider it a good nap when you actually don’t want to fall asleep. When my nephew was younger, I’d offer to take him to the movies, knowing any Disneyesque, animated 90-minute commercial would probably result in a good nap for me. I once fell asleep at the movies before the opening credits (it was “The Aviator,” and I later missed most of Cate Blanchett’s portrayal of Katherine Hepburn, but it was a good snooze, and that’s what counts). I don’t recommend a nap during movies with subtitles. Usually you can hear what is going on even with your eyes closed, but that does make reading the subtitles just a tad tougher. I fell asleep during “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” and I had to read about the movie to learn that there were three protagonists (and to find out what on earth that movie was about). But in all of these cases, the naps were refreshing little tidbits.
There are bad naps, when you are someplace where you need to stay awake – such as when you are driving, for example – and you just can’t stop your eyes from first crossing and then closing. This generally happens when you are sitting in front of the room at a meeting, a lecture or a class and is reason enough to avoid sitting in the front row. If you can’t stay awake, at least you can feign interest and combat your drooping eyelids out of the speaker’s line of sight. You drink water or another beverage, fiddle with your pen, nod as if you are hanging on the speaker’s every stimulating syllable and try not to nod off.
Now that I am retired, spending more time at home and even sleeping longer at night, I nonetheless find myself taking more naps. It’s not that I am taking them (the implication being that they are planned), but that I find myself nodding off. I can feel them coming on halfway through one of my favorite shows on HGTV and I succumb. In fact, I welcome these little respites, and I am proud of myself for getting more rest after so many years of getting so little. Naps are a little slice of heaven to me, and I wake up not feeling guilty about not doing what I was supposed to be doing because I don’t have that guilt anymore. That’s what a good nap is all about.
Hey, are you starting to nod off while reading this? OK, then, have a good nap.
How do I define good? Well, it isn’t about quantity. A good nap can be a 20-minute snooze under the right circumstances. A good nap should be serendipitous, where you find yourself drifting off and you enjoy the ride. You don’t plan a good nap, you just let it happen.
A good nap, like real estate, is about location, location, location. It shouldn’t be in bed, which is where you sleep – or, like many of us, try to sleep, get up, hit the bathroom, try to fall back to sleep and end up with CNN playing in the background (which I have come to realize is better as white noise than trying to lull myself back to sleep by watching infomercials; somehow my judgment at 4 AM is also asleep and I end up buying the 100 greatest soul songs of all time or some can opener than doesn’t work). Personally, I prefer the recliner, though I will occasionally doze on the couch, love seat or a favorite chair, but the recliner is my nap location of choice.
A good nap is where it is quiet and you aren’t interrupted. A good nap is when you don’t even move, where, sometimes the only thing that gets you up is when someone else suddenly appears in the room, when the other team scores a touchdown, or when the credits roll on the movie you were dying to watch and have now completely missed. Sometimes I wake up from a good nap because I am either freezing – all the more reason to always have that throw blanket handy, just in case – or I have to go to the bathroom so badly that my body starts screaming at me.
You might even consider it a good nap when you actually don’t want to fall asleep. When my nephew was younger, I’d offer to take him to the movies, knowing any Disneyesque, animated 90-minute commercial would probably result in a good nap for me. I once fell asleep at the movies before the opening credits (it was “The Aviator,” and I later missed most of Cate Blanchett’s portrayal of Katherine Hepburn, but it was a good snooze, and that’s what counts). I don’t recommend a nap during movies with subtitles. Usually you can hear what is going on even with your eyes closed, but that does make reading the subtitles just a tad tougher. I fell asleep during “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” and I had to read about the movie to learn that there were three protagonists (and to find out what on earth that movie was about). But in all of these cases, the naps were refreshing little tidbits.
There are bad naps, when you are someplace where you need to stay awake – such as when you are driving, for example – and you just can’t stop your eyes from first crossing and then closing. This generally happens when you are sitting in front of the room at a meeting, a lecture or a class and is reason enough to avoid sitting in the front row. If you can’t stay awake, at least you can feign interest and combat your drooping eyelids out of the speaker’s line of sight. You drink water or another beverage, fiddle with your pen, nod as if you are hanging on the speaker’s every stimulating syllable and try not to nod off.
Now that I am retired, spending more time at home and even sleeping longer at night, I nonetheless find myself taking more naps. It’s not that I am taking them (the implication being that they are planned), but that I find myself nodding off. I can feel them coming on halfway through one of my favorite shows on HGTV and I succumb. In fact, I welcome these little respites, and I am proud of myself for getting more rest after so many years of getting so little. Naps are a little slice of heaven to me, and I wake up not feeling guilty about not doing what I was supposed to be doing because I don’t have that guilt anymore. That’s what a good nap is all about.
Hey, are you starting to nod off while reading this? OK, then, have a good nap.
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