May was a much better movie month for me, with plenty of new titles and old favorites. Movies marked with an * are the ones I had not seen previously, and numbering picks up from the previous month. They are rated on a scale of 1-5 cans of tuna, 5 being the highest accolade.
50. The Bridges of Madison County (1995) – Photographer Robert (Clint Eastwood) meets Iowa farm wife Francesca (Meryl Streep) and gives her a four-day memory that lasts for a lifetime. Superb performances, sweet story and always good for a cry. Love it. 4½ cans.
51. Hot Coffee (2011) – You probably think you know the story behind this documentary, but you’re probably wrong. It recounts the real-life court case of a woman who sued McDonald’s after spilling hot coffee on her lap and experiencing life-threatening third degree burns. Unlike the tale that was propagated by the media – that she was driving the car at the time and carelessly spilled the coffee – the woman was actually a passenger and burned herself while the car was parked merely by trying to remove the lid on coffee that was about 200 degrees. The point of the story is about tort reform, an effort by big business to limit the amount the public can win when a court rules in their favor in a civil case like this. The woman’s family only sought enough money to cover her skin grafts, hospitalizations and other medical expenses, and the jury awarded her punitive and compensatory damages. Businesses throughout the US banded together under a variety of so-called grass roots organizations that they funded to cap these kinds of awards. And when that didn’t work, they began funding the election of judges who were inclined to agree with their point of view. The film is an indictment of these efforts and shows legitimate cases where non-medical expenses were crucial to the care of children and young people who suffered life-altering damages due to negligence by companies and doctors. If you think a movie about tort reform can’t be interesting, think again. This one tells a highly interesting story that might just change your mind about how the media covers news and who is really telling the truth. 4 cans.
52. Swingers (1996) – This movie is the “Diner” for the 1990s. Not much happens, but we enjoy watching a bunch of guys with female problems get together and bolster themselves up by acting cool – or trying to. Starring and written by Jon Favreau, the movie follows several would-be “players” in LA as they hang out, chase women, and reassure each other of their respective coolness. Or, as co-star Vince Vaughn constantly points out to Favreau’s sad sack Mike, “you’re money,” which is all about the currency of being cool. These guys go to 8:00 parties at midnight, cruising for “babies” but deriding the vibe if they are turned down. Mike is still pining for his ex six months after they split up, and he can’t help but work her into every conversation he has. When he finally meets a new girl and gets her number, his bros insist he not call her for at least the two-day standard, but he goes home and calls her immediately, leaving a string of pathetically funny messages for her. All the guys in the group have show business aspirations and have come oh-so close to “stardom” – an audition for Goofy at Disney here, and audition for an “After School” special there. They stroll into a club like the gangsters from “Good Fellas,” but just can’t carry off the charade. The movie pokes fun at them and they come across, for the most part, like the a**holes they are. All in good fun. 3 cans.
53. Respect Yourself: Stax Records* (2007) – If you like your sweet soul music with a twist of funk, you’re probably a Stax Records fan. The record label was started by Jim Stewart and his sister to record country music, but soon the Memphis studio began attracting a myriad of soul artists, including Otis Redding, Isaac Hayes and the jazz of Booker T & the MGs. The company headquarters boosted a “Soulsville” sign as a counterpoint to Motown’s “Hitsville” moniker in Detroit. Next door to the studio was a record store where artists would hang out, meet each other, and eventually find their way into the studio to record classic soul songs. Along the way the studio made millionaires of its artists, went bankrupt, found that it didn’t own the rights to the music, foundered and rose to the top again. The talent of the people who passed through those doors was undeniable, and the reincarnation of Stax a few years ago brought back much of the music the label made famous. In the 1960;s, there was Motown, Atlantic (Aretha Franklin, among others) and Stax. I love ‘em all. 3½ cans.
54. The Greatest* (2009) –I cannot imagine the discussion around the table when the people behind this movie decided on its name, because it reads more ironic than appropriate. A middle-aged couple, Alan and Grace (Pierce Brosnan and Susan Sarandon), are the parents of two teenaged sons. When the older son dies (in the first 2 minutes of the movie) in an entirely avoidable car accident, he leaves behind Rose (Carey Mulligan), his new high school girlfriend, who comes to them with the news that she is pregnant and has nowhere to go. Engulfed by their grief, they cannot deal with their loss, their other son or each other, no less this young woman. Everyone has issues and no one is ready to deal with their loss. The mother is determined to find out more about the accident from the man whose car struck their son, but he’s in a coma. Rose has a mother with a drug problem who is in rehab and not even aware she is pregnant. So this is a cheery little drama that should air on Lifetime TV. Oh, wait, it did, and that means enduring commercials as well as the slow plot. The Greatest wasn’t. 2½ cans.
55. All the President’s Men Revisited* (2013) – The Watergate saga covered in the Robert Redford-Dustin Hoffman movie “All the President’s Men” is now 40 years old, and this documentary looks back on the two-year investigation, the fallout that led to the resignation of President Richard Nixon, and the making of the movie. Like the story itself, the look back is riveting, and, with the passage of time, there is more perspective on the events and dirty tricks of the President and his men. Commentators like Jon Stewart, Ben Stein and Rachel Maddow reflect on the series of events, with interspersed interviews by Washington Post chief Ben Bradlee, reporters Woodward and Bernstein and actors Redford and Hoffman. We know the outcome, but we can’t stop watching as Watergate wends its way into American history with the compelling question, “What did the President know and when did he know it?” Other presidents have undergone scrutiny and compromised the sanctity of the White House, but Nixon was the first – and only – person to resign the presidency. 40 years later, and the story still fascinates. 4 cans.
56. My Favorite Year (1982) – “My Favorite Year” is one of My Favorite Movies. Take a nebbishy TV writer (Mark Linn-Baker) and put him in charge of a dashing and oft-inebriated, swash-buckling movie star (Peter O’Toole, in an Oscar-nominated performance), throw in a live TV comedy show from the 1950s with a backstage story (with Joe Bologna and Bill Macy) and you have potential chaos. Then add a hilarious scene of dinner with the folks in Brooklyn (Lainie Kazan welcoming O’Toole to her “humble chapeau” is priceless) and you have a daft and entertaining little gem of a movie. Like “The In-Laws,” this movie never fails to elicit a smile. O’Toole delivers pathos and comedy in a flawless performance. His line in the ladies room to the acerbic Selma Diamond won’t be quoted here, but it is one of my many favorites. 4 cans.
57. Tea With Mussolini (1999) – I had seen this movie so long ago that I literally forgot everything about it, so it was like seeing it for the first time. Life is beautiful for a group of elderly, feisty English women living in Florence in 1935, enjoying the art and the city and being British in a foreign land. The usual contingent of aging British actresses take the lead roles. Maggie Smith is the haughty widow of the former Ambassador, Judi Dench is a would-be artist and Joan Plowright works for an Italian man who abandons his young son Luca to her care. They are joined by an eccentric and very wealthy American art collector played by Cher and friend Lily Tomlin, who don’t live with them but visit often. As the Fascists begin to take over Italy, Smith goes to have tea with Mussolini, who assures her that she and her cronies will be under his personal protection, but with the war breaking out, that doesn’t last long. This story is based on the experiences of director Franco Zeffirelli and told with poignancy and humor. As Maggie Smith tells a Scottish military man who tries to order the ladies to leave, the Italians and the Germans couldn’t persuade them, so why would they leave for a Scot? This film is as heartwarming as a hot cup of tea. 4 cans.
58. Undefeated* (2011) – In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that I am a sucker for sports movies about underdogs who face adversity and rise up – you know the type. And further, I’ll confess that I have wanted to see this movie for the past two years, so when I finally got hold of the DVD today, I was thrilled to see this Oscar-winning documentary lived up to the hype. Manassas High is a school in the economically depressed West Memphis area, with a football team that wasn’t even the best in the city, no less the best in the state. In its 100-year+ existence, it never made the playoffs. Resources for athletics were scarce and the team was coached by volunteers, headed by Bill Courtney, a local businessman with four kids of his own. Courtney pleads with his players, cajoles them, tells them that they are better than this, and emphasizes, above all else, character and the team. “Football doesn’t build character,” he says. “Football reveals character.” This film traces the 2009 Manassas team, focusing in particular on Courtney and three of his players. Could the team win? Could the kids qualify for college? I’ll spoil it enough to say that the team doesn’t start out undefeated, but, as Courtney reminds them, character is about how you deal with adversity, not with success. This movie is a winner. 4 cans.
59. Magic Mike* (2012) – Somehow, I managed to miss this one in the theater, but it was on HBO for free and I had nothing better to do, so why not watch? The movie turned out to be not as excruciating as I had envisioned – which, admittedly, is hardly an endorsement. Hollywood Hunk of the Moment Channing Tatum reveals his considerable abilities to dance, writhe, seduce and even charm in this story of an “entrepreneur” who wants to run his own furniture design business but makes his living by being a male stripper. He works in a club run by Matthew McConaghey, a stripper turned MC who aspires to move the club from Tampa to Miami. Mike is actually a good guy. By day, he works construction jobs to make ends meet and gets to know Alex, a 19-year old who has nothing going for him aside from a cute face. He takes Alex under his wing and teaches him the tools of the trade – and I don’t mean construction. There’s lots of dancing and women and parties and troubles for Mike and Alex in this story, which is loosely based on Tatum’s own short stint as a stripper before he landed in the movies. If you are interested in the seedy life of male strippers or just want to gawk at handsome guys in not a lot of clothing, then you’ll find magic in Mike and his chums. 3 cans.
60. State Fair (1962) – And here we have the anti-Magic Mike. The State Fair is a big deal in Texas, and farmers Tom Ewell and his wife (Alice Faye) take off for the annual event with their two adult children, played by Pat Boone and Pamela Tiffin in this musical. Both immediately meet and fall for exactly the wrong kind of people (Ann-Margret, playing Ann- Margret as only Ann-Margret can play her, and Bobby Darin, playing his usual fast-talking con man). Will the father’s pig win a blue ribbon? Will the judges find out that the mother’s mincemeat is laced with bourbon? It’s funny how when you are 12 – my age when I last saw this movie – you don’t really comprehend the meaning of “corny.” Maybe it was the crush I had on Pat Boone, or even Bobby Darin, but seeing this movie 50+ years later, I sure understand corny now. I kept hoping the plot would grow on me, but all I came away with was the title song sticking in my head: “Our state fair is a great state fair, don’t miss it, don’t even be late…” Make it go away. 2 cans of homemade mincemeat.
61. The Art of the Steal (2009) – This intriguing documentary tells the story of Dr. Albert Barnes, a wealthy art collector who amassed the world’s greatest collection of Post-Impressionist and early Modern Art. When he put his collection on display in 1923, it was disparaged by the art critics and community in his native Philadelphia. Offended by the criticism, Barnes created his own Barnes Foundation, a museum where his extensive collection could be displayed according to his taste, and where art education was emphasized. He was devoted to his collection and stipulated in his will that none of the works of art could be displayed anywhere but in the museum he built in a suburban community near Philadelphia. The rest of the story is a power struggle between Barnes’ supporters and those people who wanted the art – now considered worth billions – out of the Barnes Foundation and into the hands of the art establishment, where it could be used to promote tourism by making it available to the public, regardless of the intent of Dr. Barnes. This is a captivating tale of art and commerce, of legal wrangling and greed, of backroom deals and power. When I went to see the collection in its new Philadelphia home a few months ago, I enjoyed it immensely – and felt guilty at the same time. 4½ cans.
62. The Great Gatsby* (2013) – When I heard this movie was coming out with Leonardo DiCaprio as Gatsby, I reread the book and rewatched the Robert Redford version. The first half of the movie is a visual assault on the senses, with Gatsby’s infamous parties, costumes and a huge budget devoted to confetti. The camera captures long, computer-aided shots from Gatsby’s house to the green light on Daisy Buchanan’s dock. Gatsby is a man with a past – but no one seems too sure of what that past is beyond making him impossibly rich. His is noveau riche, and frowned upon by the monied Tom Buchanan, hulking husband of Gatsby’s great love, Daisy (Carey Mulligan). Tobey Maguire is Nick Carroway, the observer and chronicler of the action as Gatsby’s neighbor. The houses are grand, the sets are sumptuous, the fashions are gorgeous, the plot is classic, and Leo has grown into a man and a deft actor. I liked this movie more than I expected. But I did think the modern music seemed out of place. 4 cans.
63. Behind the Candelabra* (2013) – Watching this movie I learned that Liberace was not only gay, he was bald. (Seriously, I knew that.) But Liberace was gay at a time when stars didn’t come out of the closet. The flamboyant entertainer was beloved by his entranced audience as he beguiled them with his bejeweled hands racing over the piano keys in Vegas. Michael Douglas proves that he can rise above even Gordon Gekko to play the title role (and he looks like a real pianist, too), and Matt Damon as his much younger lover, Scott Thorston, matches his performance even as Liberace tries to make him over – literally – to look like himself. This HBO biopic was slightly less campy than it might have been and was the second movie of the day that depicts the evils of conspicuous consumption and trying to be something you are not. 3½ cans.
64. Barney’s Version* (2010) – Paul Giammatti is Barney, a sad sack of a guy, nearly as annoying as that purple dinosaur by the same name, dumpy and unattractive, who drinks too much and smokes smelly cigars. Yet, because this movie was written by a man, Barney somehow manages to marry three different and highly attractive women, including one he met at his second wedding. When have you ever seen a movie about a dumpy, unattractive and annoying woman who coaxes three different men into marrying her? Anyway, Barney has lots of relationship problems – all self-inflicted. What saves this movie is the poignant ending, and the acting of Paul Giammatti and Dustin Hoffman, who plays his crass father. Both are superb in their roles. I don’t want to give away the plot (such as it is), but suffice to say this movie is Barney’s version of his life and it might not be anything about which others care. 3 cans.
65. Anchorman: Ron Burgundy* (2004) – Where “Blazing Saddles” and “Animal House” are the comedy classics of my generation, “Anchorman” takes the title for my 20-year old nephew’s crew. Crass, silly, slapsticky, this very funny and ridiculous movie stars Will Farrell as Ron Burgundy, the classless, oblivious and blow-dried anchorman at channel 4 news in San Diego, where he and his news team (Steve Carrell and Paul Rudd) are as dim as burned out lightbulbs. Trouble invades their all-male world in the impressively attractive form of Victoria Corningstone (Christina Applegate), an ambitious news reporter – who displays the intellect Ron lacks as she stakes claim on the anchor seat. Along for the very funny ride in cameos are Vince Vaughn, Ben Stiller, Tim Robbins and Jack Black. There is enough gross-out humor to appeal to the younger generation and enough real humor to make me laugh. This burgundy comes from a box, not a bottle, so it isn’t quite “vintage,” but it gives you a little buzz. 3 ½ glasses.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Monday, May 13, 2013
The Best Hour of the Week
Before I get into the best hour of the week, a little background is in order.
When I was growing up, no one exercised. Sure, adults played tennis or golf (in my family, the game was mah jongg, which required no exercise), and we kids jumped rope or played a spirited game of tag, but no one short of Jack LaLanne actually exercised. Until high school, that is. In high school, girls were forced to wear those dumpy, one-piece gym suits that you absolutely, positively had to iron. To go to gym class without your gym suit ironed was probably the worst transgression you could commit in high school, besides chewing gym (those WERE the good old days; now they bring guns to school, but I digress).
When I was young and worked for Johnson & Johnson, I played softball, but that was just playing an athletic game; again, not organized exercise. So it’s ironic that all of us who tried so hard to get out of gym class (“I have my period,” “I have to take a make-up test,” etc.) now actually join gyms and pay to exercise. My form of exercise – besides my walks – is to go to aqua aerobics three times a week. And on Monday and Wednesday after we finish AA, about a dozen or so of the mostly senior ladies stay to play volleyball in the pool.
These hours, my friends, are the best of the week.
First, there are no rules. Well, there is one rule: Don’t get Tina’s hair wet. Yeah, I know, you’re in the pool, right? Yes, but I don’t like getting my hair wet, and, besides, there should be some rules. That’s it for the rules.
We don’t keep score, but we do count the number of times the ball goes over the net -- and UNDER the net, for that matter, because nothing is off limits. If the person on the other side can’t reach the ball at the net and you can, you reach under and hit it to the nearest player on the other side, who will at least try to hit it OVER the net and who will be grateful for your help. If the ball bounces out of the pool but keeps bouncing and you can get it back into the pool without having it land in the water and someone hits it over the net, that’s fine. If you hit someone in the head and it goes over, it still counts. If you have to play it off the net 3-4 times just to get it up high enough that you can hit it over the net, that’s fine, too, but we only count the number of times it goes over the net, not the number of times we actually hit the ball. In any given rally, the ball might be hit by every player on one side before it goes over. We count that as one.
Second, talking may be frowned upon by some of the players, but it can hardly be contained. Invariably, around 11:30, the topic will turn to food – just as lunch hour approaches and I am getting hungry. Singing, while also frowned upon, cannot always be controlled either. Nor can discussions about the plots of “Revenge,” “Downton Abbey” and other shows we all like to watch.
The age range among the players goes from just turned 50 to at least one woman in her 80s, with several players of indeterminate years. Experience is not necessary. We will train the newcomers. Go for everything and apologize for nothing. Volleyball means never having to say, “I’m sorry.”
Margaret, who used to date someone in the Navy, ties the net across the pool. We use a big pink ball, not a volleyball (which would be too hard). If the ball is hit out of the pool and down the ramp, the youngest person in the pool has to get out and get it. A few of these ladies will always be exempt from this task. Every 10 minutes we rotate so that everyone gets a chance to play each position. If you hit the ball off the very high ceiling, it is still in play.
While we don’t have rules, we do have official excuses, and we have compiled a list that can be used any time a player misses the ball. Among them: “The ball was wet,” “I was splashed,” “The ball was slippery,” (see excuse one) and other understandable and oft-quoted reasons for missing the ball.
Missing the game is a different story. As AA class goes on, people start counting the players (not everyone participates) available. If you can’t stay that day, you’d better have a good excuse (doctor’s appointment, death in the family, among others, are acceptable).
One woman was missing in action for a few weeks. Usually, when someone is going away, she will let the other players know in advance. Heading to a wedding, going to Brooklyn to see a relative, having a hip replaced (remember, these are mostly senior women), having a meeting at Douglass (guess whose excuse that one is) are all acceptable absences. So when Sandy disappeared for a few weeks, we were all concerned. When she came back and was asked where she had been, she replied, “I was at volleyball camp.” Now we plan to take volleyball classes on line so we don’t have to miss any pool time. We can put our feet in a bucket of water while studying to make the experience more realistic. We also advise the people who are away on extended vacations that they will have to try out and take a written exam to see if they can make the team upon their return.
Our aspiration is make the Olympic team. Granted, water volleyball is not currently an Olympic sport, but if the people who govern such decisions could see us in action, they might just change their minds. Last year, in anticipation of this development, Angela and I bought matching bathing suit cover-ups showing beautiful, bikini-clad bodies. Who wouldn’t want to feature us in the Parade of Nations in those get-ups?
So what makes this hour the best of the week? Aside from the camaraderie, it is just fun. Each week, some new, ridiculous thing will happen. The ball will balance precariously on the net while players remain at the ready to hit it on whatever side it lands. When you have hit the ball and you are sure it isn’t going over the net, you yell “HELP” to alert a teammate that it is up to her to save it. You can pass the ball backwards to someone if you have a bad angle (while yelling “BACK” to alert someone). We have a typically inane discussion that suddenly quiets down as the total of successful hits builds until all you hear is the “thwack” sound of striking the ball. No one wants to be the person who misses the ball and kills the rally. Two people usually do the counting, and they get nearly identical totals most of the time. Invariably, after a long rally, the next few rallies won’t reach 10.
But of all the best hours of the week, today’s session was the most exceptional, as a combination of athletic prowess, incredible skill and sheer determination by all nine players resulted in a new record of 110 times over the net. It was our first ever triple digit total and it shattered our old record of 92. We shrieked, we shouted, we celebrated – and then we barely broke 10 for the next few minutes while the excitement subsided.
This truly was the best hour of the week.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Tina's April 2013 Movies
April was not the best month for movies for me because I was trying to keep up with all of the TV stuff on the air. May will see TV wind down and with the advent of summer movies, maybe my total will increase. Meanwhile, here's what I watched in April. Movies marked with an * are the ones I had not seen previously, and numbering picks up from the previous month. They are rated on a scale of 1-5 cans of tuna, 5 being the highest accolade.
42. Martha Marcy May Marlene* (2011) – Elizabeth Olsen, sister to the Olsen twins of sitcom and mini-mogul fame, here plays the title character. She is a lost and vulnerable young woman living on a commune that is run by a cult leader. Everyone farms, sleeps together and lives a peaceful existence – except for rapes by the cult leader and pillaging of the townsfolk for food and funds. Martha escapes and calls her estranged sister Lucy for rescue. But after living on the farm under what could only be described as bizarre conditions, Martha has great difficulty adapting to her sister’s middle class existence. She grows increasingly paranoid about the cult’s coming to find her. You can tell this is a psychological thriller by the music as Martha endures flashbacks and fear. Olson gives a terrific performance, but between the Blair Witch tendencies and the depiction of her existence pre-escape, I found the movie too disturbing. 3 cans.
43. Fall Into Grace* (2013) – Until Jim McGreevey outed himself as “a Gay American” and resigned as governor of New Jersey, he was best known as a ambitious, young politician with a big future. He stepped down from office because he was about to be blackmailed by former male lover whom he had placed in a key state position and who threatened to reveal their affair. Fast forward to today and you’ll find McGreevey has gone from the State House to the Big House – the women’s correctional facility in Hudson County, where the aspiring Episcopal priest counsels the inmates. The former governor has much in common with these women, because he, too, spent much of his life feeling like a prisoner, living a very public life and an entirely different private life that included two marriages, two children, and trying to deny the fact that he was gay. Still the consummate politician with a need to be adored, he is frank and empathetic to the women he guides, encouraging them while they are incarcerated and following them when they are released to help prevent them from falling back into the behavior that put them in prison in the first place. “Everyone should get a second chance,” urges McGreevey, who asserts that no one should be judged by the nadir of his or her existence. His work today is meaningful, his life improved with a loving partner, and this documentary, with which he cooperated extensively, paints a sympathetic picture of a man who is at last living “his own truth.” 3½ cans.
44. 42* (2103) – Before Rosa Parks refused to move to the back of the bus, and before Martin Luther King had a dream, there was Jackie Robinson, the first person of color to play major league baseball. When Branch Rickey (Harrison Ford with a set of bushy eyebrows and a scowl), head of the Brooklyn Dodgers, decided to integrate baseball, he needed a talented but tough player who would be strong enough not to fight back against the inevitable epithets, threats and disapproval – and Robinson (played by Chadwick Boseman) was his man. The two men had much in common – both loved baseball and both wanted commercial success. Jackie quietly controlled his temper and displayed the athletic gifts that made him one of the most dynamic players in the game. He joined the Dodgers in 1947, a time when black people were still referred to as Negroes, colored – or worse – and couldn’t eat in the same restaurants or stay in the same hotels as white players. His appearance on the field generated vile comments from fans, some of his teammates and opposing players and managers, but his performance and comportment helped win over fans and his own teammates. There is a moving scene when shortstop Pee Wee Reese, a native of Kentucky playing in a game close to home, intentionally stands next to Robinson and puts his arm around his teammate, illustrating his support. Robinson’s impact on the game is the stuff legends are made of, and this movie milks every moment. Jackie and his wonderful wife, Rachel, are almost too perfect, and the movie (especially the music) can be corny and overly dramatic, but the story is very real and a lesson worth learning or remembering. Here’s to you, Mr. Robinson. 3½ cans.
45. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) – Impetuous, impulsive, impish – but is he really insane? Randall Patrick McMurphy (Jack Nicholson) is hardly crazy. A career petty criminal, he finds himself imprisoned in a psychiatric facility with the mother lode of mental patients and the meanest, toughest nurse under the sun – Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher). He bristles at the rules and regulations and becomes the leader of this pack very quickly. He can defy authority all he wants, but, in the end, Nurse Ratched holds all the cards – the meds and the procedures – to render him useless to anyone. This classic movie gave Nicholson a chance to show every bit of his acting ability and won him the Oscar (along with director Milos Forman and co-star Fletcher in the Best Movie). What I have always admired about Nicholson is his ability to completely inhabit any role he takes on, and that he never cares what he looks like while doing it. His trademark killer smile is on full display here. 4½ cans.
46. Wimbledon* (2004) – When it comes to tennis, the word you don’t want to hear is “love.” Love means nothing in tennis, as in, “15-love.” But when the world’s 119th ranked player, Brit Peter Colt (Paul Bettany) falls in love with up and coming American Lizzie Bradbury (Kirsten Dunst) during Wimbledon, his game gets sharper and more focused. Hers, however, goes in a different direction and her father is determined to break them up. Aside from admiring the lanky blonde Bettany, I didn’t find much to admire in this picture. Dunst plays Lizzie as controlling and bratty, so it’s hard to root for the romance even though you know Peter needs her to keep his winning streak alive. Love prevails in this British trifle, in a good way, that is, and Peter emerges a winner after all. 2½ cans of tennis balls and recommended only to the most diehard tennis fan.
47. Kramer vs. Kramer (1979) – This movie is a touching love story of a man and his son and a realistic picture of the challenges of parenting and the difficulties of divorce on all parties. Dustin Hoffman is Ted Kramer, an advertising man, a busy, detached husband and father who largely ignores his young son (Justin Henry) and wife (Meryl Streep, in her first big role) as he focuses on his work and “bringing home the bacon.” His unhappy wife can’t take the loveless marriage (to which he is oblivious) and suddenly leaves him and her son Billy to save herself while they must fend for themselves. Two scenes best demonstrate the bond that develops between father and son as they make French toast. In the first scene, Ted is impatient, inexperienced and inept. In the second, they work wordlessly together, each handling another aspect of the prep work and expertly execute the task. Both leads won Oscars for this Best Picture, and Streep, with minimal screen time, shines as the distraught mother who is torn between loving her son and leaving him. Parenting is never perfect, as Hoffman deftly shows. 5 cans.
48. Bound for Glory* (1974) –This drama depicts the story of American folk singer Woody Guthrie, whose musical career took a long time to develop before he became known for the song that is the title of this movie. David Carradine is credible as the impoverished singer-songwriter, who, unable to get any kind of job in his native Texas, leaves behind his wife and kids and literally hops a train to California. The section about Guthrie’s journey and poverty seemed endless to me. Subsisting on no food, without even a guitar, Guthrie ends up in a group of day laborers who can only hope they have a chance to pick fruit for substandard wages. He meets a labor organizer-musician (Ronny Cox), borrows a guitar, and starts to write and perform, eventually landing on a radio show and sending for his family. Stubborn and determined to improve the plight of the poor, he most identifies with those people who want to make a living but are treated unfairly. This movie does make you understand the origin of folk music and the political causes espoused by the singers, but, in doing so, loses its appeal. I understand the egalitarian approach, but after a while, I just didn’t care. Not a terrible movie by any means, but not one I enjoyed or would ever see again. 2 cans.
49. The Maltese Falcon* (1941) – Once upon a time, a bunch of less than trustworthy people chased around after a ceramic bird statue. That would be the end of the story if we only examined the plot of this Dashiell Hammett tale. Humphrey Bogart is Sam Spade, slick private eye and the epitome of cool. He rolls his own cigarettes, wears a cocked fedora and double breasted suits and can disarm the bad guys with a single blow. When Miss O’Shaughnessy (Mary Astor) shows up on his doorstep to hire him, he and his partner are dubious, but they like the dame and her dough. That’s when people start getting bumped off while others give just nuggets of the story. Then the net widens to include the fat man (Sydney Greenstreet) and Joel Cairo (Peter Lorre, with inordinate amounts of product in his hair). Sam is a tough guy, takes nothing for granted, and is determined to get to the truth of the matter. If you like fast-talking characters, a complex plot and the whole film noir look and feel, you’ll love this classic. It’s the stuff that dreams are made of. 4 cans.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Rose
Special people come into your life when you least expect it, steal a place in your heart and stay there forever. That’s how it was for me with Rose Drabich.
Rose and I bonded over our mutual love of Rutgers Women’s Basketball. I remember exactly when we met. It was in Hartford, CT., in March, 2007, at the Big East Basketball Tournament. I was enjoying my first year of retirement from J&J and thrilled to be able to go to the tournament for the first time. The fact that I didn’t know anyone and wasn’t a member of the Cagers Club (the official fan club) didn’t deter me. I drove up alone, arranged to stay about 10 miles away at the home of a friend, and made my way to the arena. There I found myself sitting under the basket, the lone red-clad fan in a sea of blue UConn Huskies, and more than a little uncomfortable with my surroundings. As I scanned the arena, I noticed a contingent of people sporting Rutgers sweatshirts. After the first game, I made my way to the corridor behind their seats, where I ran into the one person I knew, Sally, whom I remembered from my days at Johnson & Johnson. She was with a little woman with short hair and glasses, whom she introduced as Rose.
I was immediately put at ease by her friendly and sweet demeanor. It wasn’t long after that initial meeting that I found out how much we had in common. We each lived in Hillsborough, drove an old Mercedes that we loved, and we both had survived colon cancer. Rose and her family owned the Lobster Dock in Hillsborough, and her daughter had married the brother of one of my sister’s best friends. That made us practically related, I figured. She was short, sweet and a little spicy. She reminded me of my mother. I sat with Rose and Sally that day and at many games thereafter.
2007 was the year Rutgers made it to the Championship game in Cleveland, where the Final Four was held. Again, I went alone, and it turned out that my hotel was within walking distance of the place the Cagers were staying. Rose went out of her way to make me feel welcome and included. It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
By the next year, I was driving Rose to games, or sometimes we’d see a movie together. Special people have the uncanny ability to make you feel as if you have been friends forever, and that’s how I felt about Rose. I used to chide her for not inviting me to her 75th birthday party. “But I didn’t know you then,” she’d protest. “Sure,” I’d reply. “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.” She made sure I came to her 80th birthday, and there was a special table for her basketball friends. I felt privileged to be one of the chosen, and thrilled to take a picture of Rose with her wonderful children, twin daughters Lisa and Lori and sons Mark and Michael, which I had framed and gave her as a memento of a special day for a special woman. It was still on display in her home the last time I saw her.
Rose was the most dedicated Rutgers fan you can imagine. She frequently hit the road to follow the team to Tennessee or California, and when the NCAA tournament came, Rose would faithfully book a flight to see them in action. Her son told me once that she had taken a bad fall one day before a game. Bruised but unbowed, she went anyway. She loved all of the players, exhorting them to “bend your knees” each time they attempted a foul shot. As she began to experience health problems, I’d call her or stop by and visit, and we would have in-depth discussions about the strengths and weaknesses of the team and our philosophy of offense and defense. I doubt the coaching staff spent more time analyzing the team than we did, but always in the most positive terms.
In 2008, I was looking for a local place to take aqua aerobics classes to help my aching knees, and Rose steered me to the Hillsborough Pool and Racquetball Club, where she went. See, we did have a lot in common. I signed up and she introduced me to all of the ladies as her friend. I felt lucky to be one of the many people who knew and loved her. I used to tease her, calling her “Miss Popularity,” because her cell phone would ring constantly as one of her children would always be trying to track her down. She was off and running, enjoying life to the fullest as long as she could.
Around that time, Rose began having problems with walking. By the time we went to Oklahoma for an NCAA Tournament, she needed a wheelchair to get around the airport. I told her we were lucky because we got to board the plane first. When we went to St. Thomas for a Thanksgiving tournament the next year, she was using a walker. Never one to give up, Rose consulted numerous doctors trying to figure out an accurate diagnosis so she could get better. It never seemed to occur to her that she wouldn’t get better. Even having her knee replaced didn’t help, though she held out hope of playing golf again.
As her condition worsened, the news did, too, and ultimately she was diagnosed with ALS, better known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, a dreaded affliction that affects the muscles and robs the patient of his or her ability to walk, sit, swallow or breathe. I’d watch her body betray her, and I’d see her battle to cope. She’d try any kind of therapy, any device, see any doctor or try any medication to improve her condition. She remained vital and optimistic even as she eventually lost her ability to speak. She had a device installed in the house that she could use to tap out words on a screen and the machine would speak the words. Her last words to me were, “You look good.”
I can’t imagine the feeling of being trapped in a body that is failing you even as your mind remains sharp. Though she couldn’t speak, when I would visit, we managed to have a conversation anyway – usually about basketball. Just two weeks ago I sent her an e-mail (phone calls were impossible in the last few months, but she read her e-mails) recounting the details of the recent Rutgers Women’s Basketball Banquet, an annual event she never used to miss but now could no longer attend.
Her devoted daughters stayed in touch with me and the Cagers, and any Rose news would be shared in the pool among her aqua aerobics friends. When I sent out a note today letting them know she had passed away, I got a response from one woman saddened by the news who had never met her but felt that she knew her after hearing us talk about her so often and with such fondness.
But that’s Rose, touching the lives of people who knew her and loved her and those who didn’t even know her. Today she slipped peacefully away, on her way to a place where her body will no longer imprison her, where she will be reunited with her husband, and where she will lead the cheers for her beloved Scarlet Knights. I know that every time a kid goes to the line to sink a free throw next season, Rose will be watching. I hope they bend their knees.
Rose and I bonded over our mutual love of Rutgers Women’s Basketball. I remember exactly when we met. It was in Hartford, CT., in March, 2007, at the Big East Basketball Tournament. I was enjoying my first year of retirement from J&J and thrilled to be able to go to the tournament for the first time. The fact that I didn’t know anyone and wasn’t a member of the Cagers Club (the official fan club) didn’t deter me. I drove up alone, arranged to stay about 10 miles away at the home of a friend, and made my way to the arena. There I found myself sitting under the basket, the lone red-clad fan in a sea of blue UConn Huskies, and more than a little uncomfortable with my surroundings. As I scanned the arena, I noticed a contingent of people sporting Rutgers sweatshirts. After the first game, I made my way to the corridor behind their seats, where I ran into the one person I knew, Sally, whom I remembered from my days at Johnson & Johnson. She was with a little woman with short hair and glasses, whom she introduced as Rose.
I was immediately put at ease by her friendly and sweet demeanor. It wasn’t long after that initial meeting that I found out how much we had in common. We each lived in Hillsborough, drove an old Mercedes that we loved, and we both had survived colon cancer. Rose and her family owned the Lobster Dock in Hillsborough, and her daughter had married the brother of one of my sister’s best friends. That made us practically related, I figured. She was short, sweet and a little spicy. She reminded me of my mother. I sat with Rose and Sally that day and at many games thereafter.
2007 was the year Rutgers made it to the Championship game in Cleveland, where the Final Four was held. Again, I went alone, and it turned out that my hotel was within walking distance of the place the Cagers were staying. Rose went out of her way to make me feel welcome and included. It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
By the next year, I was driving Rose to games, or sometimes we’d see a movie together. Special people have the uncanny ability to make you feel as if you have been friends forever, and that’s how I felt about Rose. I used to chide her for not inviting me to her 75th birthday party. “But I didn’t know you then,” she’d protest. “Sure,” I’d reply. “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.” She made sure I came to her 80th birthday, and there was a special table for her basketball friends. I felt privileged to be one of the chosen, and thrilled to take a picture of Rose with her wonderful children, twin daughters Lisa and Lori and sons Mark and Michael, which I had framed and gave her as a memento of a special day for a special woman. It was still on display in her home the last time I saw her.
Rose was the most dedicated Rutgers fan you can imagine. She frequently hit the road to follow the team to Tennessee or California, and when the NCAA tournament came, Rose would faithfully book a flight to see them in action. Her son told me once that she had taken a bad fall one day before a game. Bruised but unbowed, she went anyway. She loved all of the players, exhorting them to “bend your knees” each time they attempted a foul shot. As she began to experience health problems, I’d call her or stop by and visit, and we would have in-depth discussions about the strengths and weaknesses of the team and our philosophy of offense and defense. I doubt the coaching staff spent more time analyzing the team than we did, but always in the most positive terms.
In 2008, I was looking for a local place to take aqua aerobics classes to help my aching knees, and Rose steered me to the Hillsborough Pool and Racquetball Club, where she went. See, we did have a lot in common. I signed up and she introduced me to all of the ladies as her friend. I felt lucky to be one of the many people who knew and loved her. I used to tease her, calling her “Miss Popularity,” because her cell phone would ring constantly as one of her children would always be trying to track her down. She was off and running, enjoying life to the fullest as long as she could.
Around that time, Rose began having problems with walking. By the time we went to Oklahoma for an NCAA Tournament, she needed a wheelchair to get around the airport. I told her we were lucky because we got to board the plane first. When we went to St. Thomas for a Thanksgiving tournament the next year, she was using a walker. Never one to give up, Rose consulted numerous doctors trying to figure out an accurate diagnosis so she could get better. It never seemed to occur to her that she wouldn’t get better. Even having her knee replaced didn’t help, though she held out hope of playing golf again.
As her condition worsened, the news did, too, and ultimately she was diagnosed with ALS, better known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, a dreaded affliction that affects the muscles and robs the patient of his or her ability to walk, sit, swallow or breathe. I’d watch her body betray her, and I’d see her battle to cope. She’d try any kind of therapy, any device, see any doctor or try any medication to improve her condition. She remained vital and optimistic even as she eventually lost her ability to speak. She had a device installed in the house that she could use to tap out words on a screen and the machine would speak the words. Her last words to me were, “You look good.”
I can’t imagine the feeling of being trapped in a body that is failing you even as your mind remains sharp. Though she couldn’t speak, when I would visit, we managed to have a conversation anyway – usually about basketball. Just two weeks ago I sent her an e-mail (phone calls were impossible in the last few months, but she read her e-mails) recounting the details of the recent Rutgers Women’s Basketball Banquet, an annual event she never used to miss but now could no longer attend.
Her devoted daughters stayed in touch with me and the Cagers, and any Rose news would be shared in the pool among her aqua aerobics friends. When I sent out a note today letting them know she had passed away, I got a response from one woman saddened by the news who had never met her but felt that she knew her after hearing us talk about her so often and with such fondness.
But that’s Rose, touching the lives of people who knew her and loved her and those who didn’t even know her. Today she slipped peacefully away, on her way to a place where her body will no longer imprison her, where she will be reunited with her husband, and where she will lead the cheers for her beloved Scarlet Knights. I know that every time a kid goes to the line to sink a free throw next season, Rose will be watching. I hope they bend their knees.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
It's Not Just Me, Right?
When someone says to me, "Remind me to tell you later," what makes them think I will remember to remind them? Who will remind me?
What's the biggest lie? "The check is in the mail?" "The repairman will be there at XXX o’clock?" Or that the label on the "gallon" of ice cream (which is only 1.5 quarts, by the way) says: "12 servings?"
Whenever someone says, "To make a long story short," they never do.
I don't understand why strange ads pop up on my Facebook for things I have never indicated an interest in buying. Cowboy boots, Dr. Oz's diet program (which looks suspiciously NOT like Dr. Oz has anything to do with it), Fixodent for denture wearers and match.com have all surfaced recently. Tell that Al Gorithum guy he's got me all wrong.
I hate it when the pump on my soap bottle can't reach the bottom and get out the remaining soap. I can see the soap, but the only way to get it is to open the bottle and turn it upside down and wait until it comes out on my hands. Annoying, but will I get rid of a bottle that still has soap in it? Doubtful.
Why is it when we can't get some little fuzzy thing sucked up by the vacuum cleaner we are willing to bend down, pick it up and put it back on the floor to try to suck it up again in another spot? I guess that's because we don't know what to do with the fuzzy thing or thread or whatever and taking it to the nearest trash can would be too much to ask.
With the cost of tickets for almost anything these days, you feel like you better get a great show. But what do you get from the "convenience charge?" It isn't convenient for me to cough up a sizable sum so they can e-mail me the tickets that I then have to print. "Inconvenient charge" is more like it.
I always know that the movie I see in previews is not one I'll see at the theater when the deep, serious-sounding voiceover starts with, "In a world where..." and the setting shows fantasy of any kind.
When I worked, I would wake up many mornings and think it was Saturday only to realize it wasn't Saturday, and it wasn't even close. It was Tuesday. Now I wake up and have that dreaded feeling that I have to be somewhere but I don't have my schedule memorized. Trust me, retirement is better, but at least when I worked I always knew where I was supposed to be. And every day is like Saturday. Sunday still feels like Sunday, however.
I am happy to report that my work dreams are coming less often these days. I had a recurring dream where I had retired but I still kept showing up at the office. Then someone actually had a project they want me to do, and I had to explain that I don’t actually work there anymore, and to prove that fact, I had to clean out my office and “retire” all over again. I’ll be happy not to relive that Groundhog Day experience over and over.
Here is some sage advice: Don't burn the popcorn in the microwave, unless you want a lingering smoky smell for days. There's still a bowl of water with cut-up lemons in mine after the popcorn set off the fire alarm. I had to contact the alarm company to figure out how to shut it off after it blared for an hour (the security company called to check on me, so at least the fire department didn't show up).
There is nothing my best friend detests more than being stuck in a traffic during road construction only to get to the bottleneck and see a bunch of guys standing around, scratching themselves and talking and seeing no actual construction work going on.
I don't mind seeing pictures of other people's kids, but keep the sonograms to yourself. For all I know, it is a shot of my meniscus the doctor is passing off as a fetus.
While I appreciate the trend to remove tags from our t-shirts and underwear, eventually the label gets washed away and I don't know the size of the garment. For someone who is losing weight, this information could be vital.
I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of old magazines that I haven't read completely for fear that I will miss some great article. Maybe I should write less and read more?
I can't read a magazine without first ripping out all those annoying subscription cards or offers to buy some ceramic bunny from the Bradford Exchange. Who buys that crap?
It is spring, and everyone, including me, seems to be emerging from their homes after hibernating all winter. I guess we all stayed in and watched movies or sports for the last few months. Or was that just me?
When I go to a museum, I start by looking at every piece of art in the room. It doesn't take long until I am looking for a bench to sit on in every room.
Do you ever forget to wear your watch and then find yourself constantly looking at your bare wrist anyway? If you did have a watch on, would you look that often? Or do you keep looking just to see if your watch mysteriously returned on its own?
Everyone has a cell phone these days, but more than half of the people don't seem to know how to turn them off when they ring at an inconvenient time. By then everyone in the room is looking around and thinking, "Who is the idiot who can't turn off her cell phone?"
Speaking of cell phones, remember the movie "Wall Street" where Michael Douglas as Gordon Gekko used a cell phone that was the size of a shoe box? We've come a long way, baby. So now everyone walks around with a blue tooth device stuck in their ear, which only makes them seem like they are talking to themselves or to you and you say "excuse me?" without realizing they are engaged in what is probably some inane conversation that you just interrupted.
And why is it called a "blue tooth" when you stick it in your ear?
When some old-time star passes away, generally my first thought is, "He was still alive?"
I've hit the age when I can't always remember someone's name, or the star of a movie or TV show – at least at first. Hours or days later, in the car, in the shower, I'll suddenly say to myself, "Greer Garson," so I know the information is in my brain but probably blocked by all of the lyrics to "Along Comes Mary."
When I think my mind is slipping, I'll watch "Jeopardy" for a few days and come away feeling much better about myself – assuming I know the answers, that is. Just don't have "The Bible" as a category in Double Jeopardy, OK, Alex Trebek?
I live in fear of not being able to open a jar by myself. I have all kinds of devices to help my poor, weak hands, and so far I haven't failed to get one open, but I am still worried.
When I watch the weather, I really only want to know about the temperature and chance of rain or snow – OK, maybe how windy it is would be nice to know, too – but I have no interest in what is happening over the Great Plains. When that "weather front" or "weather event" hits closer to home, the weatherman can tell me then. And if I want to know how hot it is in Phoenix, well, that's what the internet is for.
I'm annoyed by people who hold on to their carts in the middle of the supermarket aisle as they examine the shelves, thus effectively blocking the whole aisle. People, a little self-awareness, please, while you are contemplating what size jar of peanut butter to buy. I find this even happens in Costco, where the aisles are wide enough for a truck to drive by, and yet people somehow manage to block the aisles anyway. I wonder if they can see me seething as I say, "Excuse me."
When you have lived or traveled in an area long enough, you don't always remember the names of the streets, so when someone asks you how to get somewhere, all you can think of is to tell them to make a left by your old school or Bobby's house, neither of which are there anymore.
I hate anything to do with tax preparation. I faithfully gather my 20 pounds of paperwork and trudge off to the accountant, but if he asks me even one question that requires a modicum of knowledge about taxes or even my own accounts, I think, "Can't you figure that out yourself, or why am I here?" I managed to get a big refund this year, so my accountant must be good, right?
I can't stand when I am stuck at a traffic light, waiting to make a left, and there is absolutely no one headed my way until just before the light turns green and an entire line of cars going straight suddenly appears and I have to hope I can make my left before the light turns red.
Don’t you hate it when you open the lid to the washing machine and find remnants of a tissue you unknowingly left in your pocket strewn among the clean clothes?
When it comes to toilet paper, mine must be placed over, not under. I need all my restraint not to change the roll at someone else's house if it isn't done that way.
I have great skepticism over any advertisement that touts its product or business as, "The best whatever in Central Jersey," or some other hyperbole. Where is the study that shows your pizza came out on top? I was amused by a local restaurant, however, that limited the scope of its braggadocio by claiming on a sign outside the restaurant, "The best hamburgers from here to the Somerville Circle," or some other vast reduction of scale. That claim seems more likely than saying they have the best burgers in the state.
It is spring, which comes the same time every year, yet we seem surprised to see the buds on the trees and the daffodils and the forsythia in bloom. But what I truly forget is the smell of the mulch. Ugh!
In this day and age, are there still people who fall for e-mails telling them they have won a lottery from Asia or that old Nigerian scam? Please tell me no.
I can no longer tell blue from black, so if I show up wearing black pants with blue shoes, you must excuse me. My only hope is that this is an age thing, so if you see me, you won't be able to tell blue from black either.
I have a big to do list and then I do something NOT on the list, so I have to put it on the list so I can cross it off. It's not just me, right? Or I sit and write this blog, thereby preventing me from getting things done that are actually ON the list. And that's the end of this story, folks.
What's the biggest lie? "The check is in the mail?" "The repairman will be there at XXX o’clock?" Or that the label on the "gallon" of ice cream (which is only 1.5 quarts, by the way) says: "12 servings?"
Whenever someone says, "To make a long story short," they never do.
I don't understand why strange ads pop up on my Facebook for things I have never indicated an interest in buying. Cowboy boots, Dr. Oz's diet program (which looks suspiciously NOT like Dr. Oz has anything to do with it), Fixodent for denture wearers and match.com have all surfaced recently. Tell that Al Gorithum guy he's got me all wrong.
I hate it when the pump on my soap bottle can't reach the bottom and get out the remaining soap. I can see the soap, but the only way to get it is to open the bottle and turn it upside down and wait until it comes out on my hands. Annoying, but will I get rid of a bottle that still has soap in it? Doubtful.
Why is it when we can't get some little fuzzy thing sucked up by the vacuum cleaner we are willing to bend down, pick it up and put it back on the floor to try to suck it up again in another spot? I guess that's because we don't know what to do with the fuzzy thing or thread or whatever and taking it to the nearest trash can would be too much to ask.
With the cost of tickets for almost anything these days, you feel like you better get a great show. But what do you get from the "convenience charge?" It isn't convenient for me to cough up a sizable sum so they can e-mail me the tickets that I then have to print. "Inconvenient charge" is more like it.
I always know that the movie I see in previews is not one I'll see at the theater when the deep, serious-sounding voiceover starts with, "In a world where..." and the setting shows fantasy of any kind.
When I worked, I would wake up many mornings and think it was Saturday only to realize it wasn't Saturday, and it wasn't even close. It was Tuesday. Now I wake up and have that dreaded feeling that I have to be somewhere but I don't have my schedule memorized. Trust me, retirement is better, but at least when I worked I always knew where I was supposed to be. And every day is like Saturday. Sunday still feels like Sunday, however.
I am happy to report that my work dreams are coming less often these days. I had a recurring dream where I had retired but I still kept showing up at the office. Then someone actually had a project they want me to do, and I had to explain that I don’t actually work there anymore, and to prove that fact, I had to clean out my office and “retire” all over again. I’ll be happy not to relive that Groundhog Day experience over and over.
Here is some sage advice: Don't burn the popcorn in the microwave, unless you want a lingering smoky smell for days. There's still a bowl of water with cut-up lemons in mine after the popcorn set off the fire alarm. I had to contact the alarm company to figure out how to shut it off after it blared for an hour (the security company called to check on me, so at least the fire department didn't show up).
There is nothing my best friend detests more than being stuck in a traffic during road construction only to get to the bottleneck and see a bunch of guys standing around, scratching themselves and talking and seeing no actual construction work going on.
I don't mind seeing pictures of other people's kids, but keep the sonograms to yourself. For all I know, it is a shot of my meniscus the doctor is passing off as a fetus.
While I appreciate the trend to remove tags from our t-shirts and underwear, eventually the label gets washed away and I don't know the size of the garment. For someone who is losing weight, this information could be vital.
I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of old magazines that I haven't read completely for fear that I will miss some great article. Maybe I should write less and read more?
I can't read a magazine without first ripping out all those annoying subscription cards or offers to buy some ceramic bunny from the Bradford Exchange. Who buys that crap?
It is spring, and everyone, including me, seems to be emerging from their homes after hibernating all winter. I guess we all stayed in and watched movies or sports for the last few months. Or was that just me?
When I go to a museum, I start by looking at every piece of art in the room. It doesn't take long until I am looking for a bench to sit on in every room.
Do you ever forget to wear your watch and then find yourself constantly looking at your bare wrist anyway? If you did have a watch on, would you look that often? Or do you keep looking just to see if your watch mysteriously returned on its own?
Everyone has a cell phone these days, but more than half of the people don't seem to know how to turn them off when they ring at an inconvenient time. By then everyone in the room is looking around and thinking, "Who is the idiot who can't turn off her cell phone?"
Speaking of cell phones, remember the movie "Wall Street" where Michael Douglas as Gordon Gekko used a cell phone that was the size of a shoe box? We've come a long way, baby. So now everyone walks around with a blue tooth device stuck in their ear, which only makes them seem like they are talking to themselves or to you and you say "excuse me?" without realizing they are engaged in what is probably some inane conversation that you just interrupted.
And why is it called a "blue tooth" when you stick it in your ear?
When some old-time star passes away, generally my first thought is, "He was still alive?"
I've hit the age when I can't always remember someone's name, or the star of a movie or TV show – at least at first. Hours or days later, in the car, in the shower, I'll suddenly say to myself, "Greer Garson," so I know the information is in my brain but probably blocked by all of the lyrics to "Along Comes Mary."
When I think my mind is slipping, I'll watch "Jeopardy" for a few days and come away feeling much better about myself – assuming I know the answers, that is. Just don't have "The Bible" as a category in Double Jeopardy, OK, Alex Trebek?
I live in fear of not being able to open a jar by myself. I have all kinds of devices to help my poor, weak hands, and so far I haven't failed to get one open, but I am still worried.
When I watch the weather, I really only want to know about the temperature and chance of rain or snow – OK, maybe how windy it is would be nice to know, too – but I have no interest in what is happening over the Great Plains. When that "weather front" or "weather event" hits closer to home, the weatherman can tell me then. And if I want to know how hot it is in Phoenix, well, that's what the internet is for.
I'm annoyed by people who hold on to their carts in the middle of the supermarket aisle as they examine the shelves, thus effectively blocking the whole aisle. People, a little self-awareness, please, while you are contemplating what size jar of peanut butter to buy. I find this even happens in Costco, where the aisles are wide enough for a truck to drive by, and yet people somehow manage to block the aisles anyway. I wonder if they can see me seething as I say, "Excuse me."
When you have lived or traveled in an area long enough, you don't always remember the names of the streets, so when someone asks you how to get somewhere, all you can think of is to tell them to make a left by your old school or Bobby's house, neither of which are there anymore.
I hate anything to do with tax preparation. I faithfully gather my 20 pounds of paperwork and trudge off to the accountant, but if he asks me even one question that requires a modicum of knowledge about taxes or even my own accounts, I think, "Can't you figure that out yourself, or why am I here?" I managed to get a big refund this year, so my accountant must be good, right?
I can't stand when I am stuck at a traffic light, waiting to make a left, and there is absolutely no one headed my way until just before the light turns green and an entire line of cars going straight suddenly appears and I have to hope I can make my left before the light turns red.
Don’t you hate it when you open the lid to the washing machine and find remnants of a tissue you unknowingly left in your pocket strewn among the clean clothes?
When it comes to toilet paper, mine must be placed over, not under. I need all my restraint not to change the roll at someone else's house if it isn't done that way.
I have great skepticism over any advertisement that touts its product or business as, "The best whatever in Central Jersey," or some other hyperbole. Where is the study that shows your pizza came out on top? I was amused by a local restaurant, however, that limited the scope of its braggadocio by claiming on a sign outside the restaurant, "The best hamburgers from here to the Somerville Circle," or some other vast reduction of scale. That claim seems more likely than saying they have the best burgers in the state.
It is spring, which comes the same time every year, yet we seem surprised to see the buds on the trees and the daffodils and the forsythia in bloom. But what I truly forget is the smell of the mulch. Ugh!
In this day and age, are there still people who fall for e-mails telling them they have won a lottery from Asia or that old Nigerian scam? Please tell me no.
I can no longer tell blue from black, so if I show up wearing black pants with blue shoes, you must excuse me. My only hope is that this is an age thing, so if you see me, you won't be able to tell blue from black either.
I have a big to do list and then I do something NOT on the list, so I have to put it on the list so I can cross it off. It's not just me, right? Or I sit and write this blog, thereby preventing me from getting things done that are actually ON the list. And that's the end of this story, folks.
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