MINI Me

A couple of years ago, I wrote a post entitled Boy Rides, in which I waxed poetic on the subject of male automobile fervor versus female ambivalence.  Women, I wrote, only care about cars as a way of getting from here to there, a transport system for Costco runs, and sucking in fresh spring air through an open sunroof.  The only new car I ever owned was purchased in 2006 at a Nissan dealer while Husband was shopping for a new vehicle.  I hopped into a Sentra while he test drove a Maxima, and we both walked out with fresh paperwork on shiny new automobiles.  Husband has since had an Acura after the Maxima, but I keep cars for life.  Just ask my kids, both of whom survived a mortified adolescence being driven around in my vintage Volvo 240D that sounded like a Boeing aircraft.  Probably the same gas mileage, too.

For all my Everywoman pontificating, I have always harbored a tiny puddle of envy for MINI Cooper owners.  I would spot them at traffic lights, all cuddled up inside their sporty MINI, playing with their Disneyesque dashboard controls and looking all Eurotrashy splendid.  My foreign cars always came from Japan or Sweden, never the homeland of Bond, James Bond.  And with the exception of my first used car at 16, a 1963 bronze Chevy Nova with a white hardtop, I’ve never felt an emotional attachment to a chunk of metal.

So it came to pass that the Sentra required new brakes, the steering mechanism began to squeak, and the fuel pump started farting.  Husband shook his head each time I coaxed life out of my pampered buggy, and sped off down the driveway (our new garage door stands as testament to my speeding up the driveway as well).  Finally he asked me one day a couple of weeks ago why I don’t just get a new car.  Before I even thought about it, I blurted out, “I want a MINI.”

“You do?” he asked, surprised.  He knew I always looked at them on the road with the same expression I reserve for babies and puppies, but this was the first time I’d said so out loud.  “Why don’t you go test drive one to see how it feels?” he suggested, sweetheart that he is.  So I did.

The MINI must be a BMW salesman’s easiest sale, being the most reasonably priced thing on their lot, and by far the cutest.  I went up to the receptionist and said I’d like to speak to someone about a MINI, and right away the seasoned older white salesmen looked up at the ceiling like it might rain right inside the building, that’s how much they didn’t want to deal with a single woman asking about a MINI.  The young black guy stepped forward, introduced himself, and asked if there was a particular color I’ve been dreaming about.  I wanted to tell him right there, “Too bad for your prejudiced co-workers because I’m buying one of these cars.”  I picked it up yesterday, and you know who I feel like in it?  Bond, Mrs. James Bond.

mini 1 MiniMe

Daughter’s Featured Fotos offer a brief Spring Tour of the city

identity theft

identity theft

doggie bunk bed

doggie bunk bed

creepy

creepy

grand street park

grand street park

Posted in All Things Considered | Tagged , , | Comments Off on MINI Me

A Touch of Gas

Two weeks ago I gave Son a lift to the airport on his way out to California to be with Girlfriend’s family for Passover.  Before we left his house, he took me down to the basement to show me the great paint job he did.  On reaching the bottom step I said what I always say in Son’s basement:  “Do you smell gas in here?”  Son responded with his usual answer, “No, I don’t and no one else does.  You’re the only one who ever smells gas.”  I said, “Okay, great paint job, just do me a favor and call the gas company when you get home so they can check it out.  Then I promise I will never mention it again.”  He said will do.

Son and Girlfriend returned earlier this week, and the next afternoon my cell phone rang as I sat in a local pizzeria.

SON:  Hi, where are you right now?

OSV:  I’m at Sal’s having a slice.  Why?

SON:  I need you to go over to my house immediately.  I called the gas company like you asked me to and they said if no one’s home when they get there they’re going to break the door down.

OSV:  WHAT?!  Where are you?

SON:  I’m at work.  I called them to make an appointment, but as soon as I said there may be a gas smell they said it was an emergency.  It’ll take me a half hour to get home and they’ll be there in twenty minutes.

OSV:  Wait!  I don’t have your house key with me.

SON:  Just stand in front so they don’t destroy my door.  The gas company is out of control.

OSV:  I feel terrible.  I should have mentioned you need to be home when you call.

SON:  I hate to rush you but are you finished eating?

I tossed the crust in the trash and ran out the door with Sal calling after me asking if everything was okay.  I was already gone.

The National Grid truck pulled up a few minutes after I arrived and the service guy rolled down his window when he saw me.

OSV:  Hi.  This is not an emergency.  I’m the homeowner’s mother and I’m the one who suggested he call.  No one else besides me ever smells gas in his basement, so he only called because I asked him to.  Please don’t break the door down.

The service guy looked aggravated.  “Is that what they told your son?  I hate when they do that.  Customer service gets callers so riled up they’re in a state of panic when we get here.  I’ve never had to break a door down, ever.  Although I’m sure your son has a gas leak.”

OSV:  What?  Why would you say that?

GASMAN:  Because 90% of the time it’s the woman in a house who smells gas.  The husband always stands behind her doing that cuckoo thing, you know, telling me she’s crazy.  Almost every time the wife is right.  Guys never smell gas.  I guarantee you I’ll be finding a leak.

OSV:  There’s still that 10% chance I’m wrong.

GASMAN:  Nope.  As soon as you said you’re his mother it went up to 100%.  Mothers you can take to the bank.

Damn if we both weren’t right.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos don’t presume to Preach

urban zoo

urban zoo

andy warhol statue in union square

andy warhol statue in union square

re-re-re-re-invented

re-re-re-re-invented

no judgment

no judgment

Posted in The Kids Are Alright | Tagged , , | Comments Off on A Touch of Gas

Taking the MacLeap

I am a lifelong Windows person, despite the clever TV spots about the stylish Mac guy vs the pathetic PC dude.  Daughter has also done what she could to sway me over from the dark side of GatesWorld to the light and lively land of funky Apple users.  There are no viruses, she promised, no labyrinthine procedures to unlock simple commands, no equipment seizures, no tech support calls to foreign lands.  Through it all I was characteristically resistant, similar to how I maintained for a long time that ceiling fans were a fad.  Sometimes I remind myself of my late maternal grandfather, who back in the fifties predicted that television would never catch on.  This as he sat glued in front of the “professional” wrestling station until it signed off for the night.  I don’t mind being proven wrong; I just wish I didn’t take so long to admit it.

So it comes to pass that I am now the owner of a shiny new MacBook Pro.  In a previous entry I wrote about doing battle with Toshiba over a laptop manufacturer’s defect they refused to acknowledge or repair.  After paying to get it rectified on my own, the exact same thing happened again only two months later.  Everyone has their own point of no return, and that incident was mine.  Ding ding ding!  I agree that many people would realize there were sharks in the water after having an arm gnawed off.  My learning curve seems to require both arms.

Daughter and I met in the city on Monday at the West 14th Street Apple store, one of the sleek locations in the Big Apple Apple arsenal.  It is a glass monolith that rises above the corner of 14th Street and 9th Avenue, like a harbinger of a future where buildings are transparent and worlds exist alongside each other on separate but visible planes.  Even the wide steps of the curving spiral staircases inside are see-through.  It’s as if all tangible points reflect the brand’s claim to transparency and ease of use.  The Mac mantra is that their products are user friendly and intuitive.  The PC platform must be learned; Mac can be felt.  Maybe for graphic artists, I thought, and people who grew up with computers in their kindergartens.  Not for midlife diehard Windows wonks like me.  Right?  Allow me to report firsthand that they are not blowing smoke up anyone’s ass.  They’re dead right.

When you first walk in, you see the swarm of humanity waiting for iPads that haven’t been released yet.  Then there’s the iPod gallery.  Along the far glass wall on a ledge sits a row of MacBook laptops.  A young and contagiously upbeat salesperson asks which one you’d like — there are only six to choose from — and which options you want.  You make your choice and are walked over to a long counter in the center that resembles a wide bar with stools.  By the time you are seated, another smiling Apple worker has placed your new Mac on the counter in front of you.  The two of them watch you open the box and remove the computer from its protective wrapping.  They show you how to turn it on, and explain how it’s different from the PC on which you’ve been living your life.

As a demonstration, they have you open Safari (the web browser) and pick a YouTube video.  A notice pops up that you will need Adobe Flash Player to view this video; would you like it?  You click yes and it’s installed; the video begins to play.  That’s a HUGE difference.  Whereas with Windows you have to search for what you need, Mac tells you, and then offers to do it.  It’s like the computer is saying, “Go have a burger while I pump your gas and wash your car.”

Forty minutes after entering the store, we were back outside on 14th Street with a list of free workshops available at all locations.  We headed east to Union Square, my new Mac slung like a backpack behind Daughter’s shoulders.  She looked as proud of me as I was so long ago when she took her first steps.  Except this time I’m the one who’s off and running.

Pics from our trip to Tucson provide Subtle Color

southwest still life

southwest still life

ted degrazia mosaic mural, gallery in the sun

ted degrazia mosaic mural, gallery in the sun

degrazia work studio

degrazia work studio

weather

weather

Posted in All Things Considered | Tagged , , , | Comments Off on Taking the MacLeap

There was no baby

Communication between the sexes is a subject that has inspired hundreds of talk shows and thousands of books.  Men and women are just undeniably different in the ways they impart information and take it in.  Nowhere is that fact more evident than in a marriage, where the transfer of data is ongoing, eternal, and fraught with disparity over What Is Important.  I realized this long ago when Husband and I had the following exchange early in our marriage.

HSBD:  You know who I ran into today?  Dave.  He told me his wife had a baby.

OSV:  Really?  That’s so great.  They were trying forever.  Is it a boy or a girl?

HSBD:  They’re still living in Queens.

OSV:  What did they have?

HSBD:  I don’t know.  We didn’t talk long.

OSV:  Maybe he mentioned the baby’s name?

HSBD:  I’m not sure.

ARGHHHHH!  I remember Husband’s look of surprise when I went on and on about how you can’t just report to me that a couple we know had a child without surrounding it with the information I need to fully process the news.  Gender is basic.  Name is helpful.  How long ago is mandatory.  There is nothing more embarrassing than calling a new mom with congratulations only to find out the kid’s first birthday was last week.  Likewise if the snippet of information I’m given is that Lenny and Pam just got back from Florida.  The next most embarrassing thing is calling Pam to congratulate her for escaping New York’s snow only to find out they went down there for her mother’s funeral.  Don’t go sending me in to battle with blanks.  A girl could get hurt.

Savvy Husband recognized long before he met me that men begin a story with the most pertinent fact, while women start with atmosphere.  Whereas a man’s version of an incident might begin, “I was going around sixty when the deer ran out in front of my car,” a woman’s will more likely start with, “It was a dark and stormy night.”  In spite of already knowing this to be the case, Husband would tap his foot or otherwise look distracted as I verbally set the stage for the question I was about to answer.  In time he accepted the fact that he could no more hasten me through my prologue than I could wrangle details out of him that it was off his radar to seek.  After ten years of marriage, we have both acknowledged where the divide is and made a mutual attempt to forge it.  Husband has become almost rigorous in his notation of newborn statistics.  He now reports the baby’s sex, weight, and name.  In turn, I try to ease back on my hunger for more.  Our conversation last night tells me I have to try harder.

HSBD:  I saw Bob yesterday in the city.  He asked if we want to get together with him and Amy for dinner.

OSV:  They’re back from California?

HSBD:  Apparently so.

OSV:  Did he say how Amy’s dad is?

HSBD:  No.  He asked about dinner.

OSV:  Well, they went out there to be with her father after his surgery.  Bob didn’t say?

HSBD:  I told him we’d like to have dinner.  He said Amy was fine and I said you were fine.  We both said we’re busy as hell at work.  I did the best I could, sweetheart.  There wasn’t any baby.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos reveal Messages for all to see

there was 1 wordonthestreet

there was 2 transparency

there was 3 citi_what

there was 4 werds

Posted in 'Til Death Do Us Part | Tagged , , , | Comments Off on There was no baby

Waiting for Rheeform

If the public education system isn’t always on the minds of the American people, it should be.  In the most basic terms, it is the institution that prepares our young people for the future, and their future is our country’s future.  By every statistic available, our students lag behind a half dozen other countries in both academic preparation and achievement.  The blossoming reform movement in the American education system, spearheaded by those outraged at the status quo and dedicated to transforming it, is the most significant social issue since feminism, and one whose outcome will reach far beyond the boundaries of our nation alone.

At times I feel like I’m in the city school trenches along with Daughter when she calls to relay experiences in her classroom.  Having taught in charter and private schools, Daughter is now a kindergarten teacher in Harlem for the past year, an experience that has left her both impressed with the potential of her students, and shocked at the level of knowledge and lack of professionalism displayed by some of her fellow teachers.  This week she told me the following story, one which she prefaced as being not particularly out of the ordinary.  It happened the day Daughter announced to her class that they were beginning a unit on the fifty United States.  The teacher she shares the class with, and the two paraeducators assigned to them, all piped up at once to correct her that there were 53 states.  Daughter interrupted her lesson to tell them that there were, in fact, 50 states.  No, the adult educators in the room insisted, there used to be 50 states, but now there are 53.  The kindergartners looked back and forth with growing confusion.  “What are these additional three states?” Daughter asked the adults.  In unison they replied, “Alaska, Hawaii, and Puerto Rico.”

Determined to have the children learn this fact correctly, Daughter told her colleagues that there had been 48 states before the addition of Alaska and Hawaii, and Puerto Rico is not actually a state.  This is why there are 50 stars on our flag, one representing each state.  When the co-teacher and paras became more vocal in their insistence, Daughter suggested they go consult a computer.  She finished her lesson and the colleagues said nothing after their Google search.  Not even “Oops.”

The recent award-winning documentary, Waiting for “Superman” is more than a harrowing depiction of a broken system and the students it fails to serve.  It is a cautionary tale.  Ripped to shreds by unions, politics, Catch-22 directives, and a pervasive social atmosphere that teachers and parents are more adversaries than allies, it would take more than just one Superman to set us back on the right path.  It will take dedicated and insightful reformers like Michelle Rhee of the New Teacher Project and StudentsFirst, and Geoffrey Canada of the Harlem Children’s Zone to move the focus squarely onto the students’ best interest where it belongs.  Here in New York City, Mayor Bloomberg insisted on appointing a school chancellor with no background in education.  Had it worked out, the mayor could have had a grandstanding “I told you so” moment.  Now that Cathleen Black is out after only a few months, the spotlight is on his hubris instead with “WTF was he thinking?”  Even Black’s supporters knew she was doomed in her first weeks on the job when she toured an inner city school and quipped that the solution for overcrowding may lie in better birth control.  Yikes.

What makes for a solid foundation in a student’s education?  Geoffrey Canada’s Harlem Children’s Zone has demonstrated that poverty need not be a barrier to academic achievement and the life-changing self-esteem that follows.  Michelle Rhee, charter school proponent, former chancellor of Washington D.C.’s school system, and founder of the StudentsFirst initiative maintains that the most essential thing in a child’s education is having a good teacher three years in a row.  With the long-standing public school policy of layoffs based on seniority, and tenure without review, that scenario is unlikely.  Young teachers with the idealism and energy to usher in the necessary reforms will be the first to go.

There are as many gifted teachers with tenure as there are those who have it without merit, and no other acceptable system is yet in place to reward professional performance with job security.  That said, we are approaching the eleventh hour.  The countries in other parts of the world that are kicking our ass in education, most notably in Asia, have a cultural climate that reveres teachers.  Only the best and brightest are chosen to pursue careers in education, and they are remunerated and respected in kind.  American society promotes the notion that if you have no special talent or direction in life, you can always be a teacher.  You get benefits for life and summers off, plus you can never be fired.  Great for the teacher, not so much for the student.  This is how it happens that our children can be taught by adults who don’t know how many states there are.  Consider the potential impact of these three individuals in their careers so far:  three educators with a combined 30+ years and 25 children in each class per year.  You do the math.  I’m worried they can’t.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos are back Better Than Ever

907 crew

907 crew

your space is invaded

your space is invaded

skating

skating

vudu

vudu

waiting 5 artoftrespass

 

Posted in Rage Against the Machine | Tagged , , , , , | Comments Off on Waiting for Rheeform

That would be telling

We recently returned from our trip to Tucson, and I visited my fitness trainer today for the first time in over two weeks since she and her husband went on vacation right after we got back.  Faith and I compared our various experiences and hotel amenities as I warmed up on the elliptical, that mechanical instrument of Satan.  When people tell me they routinely do a half hour on the elliptical, I can’t help but think they’re either jerking me around or I’m doing it wrong.  I know it’s called exercise for a reason, but it also doesn’t have to feel like piranha biting your legs after five minutes.  I’ve been told by these manic workout types that you get into a groove and don’t even know you’re on it after a while.  In my legs’ mind, that’s a hard concept to accept.  Kind of like waterboarding for fun.

I told Faith that our resort had the most amazing fitness center looking out over the desert fauna and a natural waterfall in the canyon wall.  Every piece of equipment had a magnificent view and the design of the center was sleek and state of the art.  She asked how many times I managed to get in there and I said, “Did I mention that every machine faced the waterfall?”  She nodded and raised her eyebrows.  It is as pointless for me to lie to Faith as it is for a condemned man to order meat loaf as his last meal.  If I don’t take my workouts seriously, there is every chance that the fat cells I punish on the elliptical will be waiting for me outside in my car.  They’re like dust mites.  You can’t see them individually, but that doesn’t mean a whole industry hasn’t sprung up to eradicate them.

“Did you at least go once?” she persisted.  “Well, of course I went once or how else would I be telling you about it?” I asked with all the sincerity of one of the Real Housewives.  Faith lowered her head and looked at me through the tops of her eyeballs. “I ate healthy,” I said piously.  “The resort where we stayed was all about sustainable cuisine using the natural ingredients found locally to conjure up amazing dishes.  It was a very green vacation.”  “And I’m turning green listening to this load of crap,” Faith laughed, handing me a pair of weights for bicep curls.  I looked down at them and the curvy 8 stamped on each end.  “Hey, don’t I usually use 7 lbs for curls?”  Faith shrugged her ridiculously well-toned shoulders.  “You’re full of all that sustainable food,” she reminded me, and then added, “You had a good time though, right?”  I told her we had an amazing time.  “That’s great,” she said, clicking her stopwatch.  “Because playtime is over.”

Today’s Fotos feature the vibrant work of Cherokee artist Jesse Hummingbird

We are Bird Clan

We are Bird Clan

Following the star to camp

Following the star to camp

Day Eagle and Night Eagle

Day Eagle and Night Eagle

Delivery by Chevy

Delivery by Chevy

that would 5 JesseHummingbird3

Posted in Travelblog | Tagged , , , , | Comments Off on That would be telling

1,000 First Dates

My late mother was a smart woman with an endearingly ditzy side.  A lifelong voluptuous blonde, she always used to say “You have to be smart to act dumb,” which was probably a direct quote from a Marilyn Monroe movie like “How to Marry a Millionaire” or “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.”  Either way, Husband’s first comment upon meeting my mom eleven years ago was about how engaging her natural upbeat innocence was and how infectious her laugh.  Now that we’re married a decade, he’s mentioning more and more how much I remind him of her, usually as I wander around a parking lot beeping the remote to locate my car.  Don’t tell him, but more than once I’ve done that at the train station before remembering I walked that day.  As every woman realizes at some time in her life, eventually we become our mothers.

Husband has frequently remarked that it often seems like I don’t know where I am.  I would have to agree with him.  Although my psyche is centered and my yin and yang feel perfectly balanced, geographically I’m as lost as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.  On our recent trip to Arizona, we got off the highway to visit some historic sight, and when we were ready to get back on Husband asked if I could read the sign in the distance that said AZ-51.  I said that I could and should I look for east or west?  He shot me an astonished look and said, “East or west?  It runs north and south.  We were just on it for twenty miles; didn’t you notice it was AZ-51N?”  The short answer is:  No.  I don’t notice things like that.  That’s what a GPS is for.  There’s only so much room in my brain for trivia like location and direction.  I prefer to go with the wise hippie logic of “Wherever you go, there you are.”  It may not help in finding the nearest Golden Corral, but that much food isn’t good for you anyway.

It is an endless source of amusement for Husband to get off a hotel elevator with me and watch as I walk down the hallway in the wrong direction, again and again.  At some point on my journey, I realize he’s not responding to what I’m saying and I turn around to see him way far away by the elevator chuckling and shaking his head.  It is then that he calls out my mother’s name and waves me in like an airplane on a runway.  When I reach him, he invariably asks how it is that I have no inner compass whatsoever.  I tell him I have an inner roulette wheel, and that makes my days infinitely more interesting.  You never get bored if everything always seems fresh.

Somewhere in the universe there is a blonde with big boobs who always knows which way to go.  I would like to think of us as twins separated at birth.  Although I am brunette, and voluptuous only in my dreams, I would regale my long-lost sister with the dizzy blonde jokes that always made my mother laugh.

Why did the blonde write TGIF on the tops of her shoes?
To remind herself Toes Go In First.

My mother would give me a sly wink when she laughed at jokes like that because she knew that a little ditzy can be a real gift.  Wherever that other phantom daughter of hers is, I hope she’s enjoying going in the right direction as much as I am wandering around.  And no, I wouldn’t change places with her for anything.

Today’s Fotos are from Tombstone, Arizona, pardner

tourist bonanza

tourist bonanza

horseys

horseys

giant squashblossom

giant squashblossom

bipartisan warning

bipartisan warning

Posted in Travelblog | Tagged , , , | Comments Off on 1,000 First Dates

Change of Scenery

I can tell we’re on vacation because of three things:

1.  There are cactus outside.
2.  The clock says 6:30 am but my body says 9:30.
3.  I ate a York Peppermint Patty on a balcony watching the sun come up.

None of these things ever happen on an average day in New York, so I must be in Tucson.  Husband and I flew out two days ago on an early morning JetBlue flight that boarded quickly and then sat on the rainy tarmac with me thinking, “This flight is not leaving the ground.”  Since it was only ten minutes past boarding and I’m a very negative flyer to begin with, I said nothing aloud to Husband.  But if my gut feelings about air travel could be converted to lottery numbers, we’d have been on a private jet to Bali.  Finally the pilot came on the speaker and said there was a maintenance issue so we would be delayed.  I said out loud, “No way this plane is taking off,” which elicited suspicious looks from the passengers around me and a patient sigh from Husband.

Soon the pilot was back on telling us that we were waiting for a brand new plane to arrive from Orlando and then boarding that one since the one we were on was going nowhere.  The woman across the aisle looked at me like I had explosives in my shoe.  I gave an innocent shrug, but inside I was shouting, “YES!  I knew it, bitches!  This plane had ‘turkey’ written all over it.”  We de-planed and re-boarded an hour later.  I did not feel triumphant.

We landed hours later in rainy Phoenix, a city where it never rains.  When the plane touched down, the anti-terrorist woman moaned in a loud voice, “Please tell me we’re in Greece and it didn’t take this long just to get to Arizona.”  I looked out the window at the cactus and knew the pilot had hit his mark.  Before we de-planed for the final time, the flight attendant brought me a JetBlue voucher as compensation for having been seated in front of the plane’s only broken TV.  By that point I’d have walked on broken glass to get out of there.

Ever since then, though, it has been a dream vacation.  Husband surprised me by booking a truly exquisite suite at a resort high up in the Tucson foothills with a magnificent view from every window.  He made sure there was a separate sitting room so I could blog or watch TV in the middle of the night since my sleep patterns have sucked since menopause.  We have a giant Jacuzzi tub in each room, totaling one more than we actually need.  When we checked in, the concierge remembered Husband’s request for the oversized jet tub from his phone reservation.  She welcomed us to the resort and turned to address Husband.

CONCIERGE:  You’re the gentleman who requested the double Jacuzzi.  Your suite happens to boast two double jet tubs that are so large they can actually fit three people.

HUSBAND:  I can’t see that happening, but thank you.  We weren’t planning on having any parties.

We took the opportunity to ask for directions to some shopping spots we always try and visit when we’re in the Southwest.  In the past, we have discovered vintage Native American collectibles at area pawn shops, and we hoped Tucson might yield similar treasures.

HUSBAND:  Could you supply the names of some good local pawn shops?

CONCIERGE:  Porn shops?

HUSBAND:  (hurrying to clarify)  No, no, pawn shops.  Not PORN shops.  Absolutely not porn shops.

CONCIERGE:  Pawn shops.  I see.  I don’t judge, you know.  I’m here solely to assist our guests.

OSV:  No, we really mean pawn shops.

We were so busy trying to explain ourselves that we missed the fact that asking about pawn shops at this luxury resort was probably just a half notch above porn shops.  The concierge dutifully wrote down the addresses of several places and handed it to us, no doubt wondering about all the people we’d be cramming into our two giant jet tubs.  Since then, every time we pass her she gives us the same weird smile.  Some bells you just can’t unring.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos speak to Movement

subway line street art

subway line street art

and goes

and goes

aren't we all

aren’t we all

i love ny more than ever

i love ny more than ever

Posted in Travelblog | Tagged , , , , , | Comments Off on Change of Scenery

Truth in Advertising

Husband and I were both born under the sign of Taurus, which means we also share a daily horoscope, something I read aloud at breakfast if it seems particularly relevant.  If horoscopes can ever be classified as relevant.  Today’s words of wisdom for the May babies were, “People think you are a bit more talented and desirable than you really are.”  I mean, WHAT?  Talk about a backhanded celestial slap.  Normally, Husband just glances up from the Important News Section and smiles at whatever pap I’m reading him, but today he threw his hands up in mock incredulity and said, “And they expect to sell papers with this?”  Perhaps Son will have a better day with the Pisces prediction, “You easily find ways to make what you do for a living fun.”  As it happens, Son really enjoys his work, but what about all the Pisces morticians?  Tweak it just right, and any horoscope turns ghoulish.

That goes for consumer product warnings as well.  Last week, Daughter was over and we were discussing the various pros and cons of non-stick cookware.  She’s in the market to replace her pots and pans, and she’s all about being green.  I told her I’m thrilled with my T-FAL skillet and I pulled it out of the cabinet for her to inspect.  It’s seen a year of use with no flaking of the non-stick coating whatsoever.  I use the folded cardboard insert it came with to cushion it from the pan stacked on top, and Daughter opened the insert to learn more about the skillet’s composition.  She gave a chortle as she read the following:

Q.  If the cookware is accidentally overheated, will there be fumes and will they be hazardous?

A.  Any material overheated high enough will give off fumes.  Fumes from overheated non-stick cookware will not adversely affect humans or household pets . . . with the exception of birds.  Since birds have particularly sensitive respiratory systems, they are susceptible to fumes.  Users should observe good cooking practices, and never allow non-stick cookware to overheat.  For their safety, always keep birds in a well-ventilated room away from the kitchen.

By all means, keep Tweety in the den when you’re cooking so she can evolve without interruption into the intelligent ruler of our Teflon-addled brains.

Q.  What would happen if the non-stick coating peeled and was accidentally eaten by someone?

A.  T-FAL’s non-stick coating is formulated not to chip or peel under normal household use.  If particles from the coating are accidentally ingested there is no danger.  The main ingredient of the non-stick coating, called PTFE, is inert and will pass directly through the body without being absorbed.

I’m sure Tweety will laugh her beak off as you poop out a pile of PTFE.  If you’re an Aquarius, this could be a propitious event because according to the paper, “A thing of real beauty is to be found right on your own doorstep.”  No advice about cleaning it off, though.  Of course, you can always holler for a Taurus if you need a hand.  Today we’re desperate.

In honor of St. Paddy’s Day, today’s Fotos are from our 2010 trip to Ireland

truth 1 chessinthewoods

chess in the woods

truth 2 PowerscourtEstateEnniskerry

Powerscourt Estate, Enniskerry

truth 3 Kilkenny

Kilkenny

truth 4 DublinPharmacy

Dublin pharmacy window

truth 5 thegreenestgreen

the greenest of green

Posted in MindFrame | Tagged , , , , , | Comments Off on Truth in Advertising

Silent Company

Writing is by nature a solitary and romanticized venture, making it no wonder that writers who fill the void of isolation with excessive alcohol are given a poetic pass by society at large.  That is, until their children get old enough to write a tell-all memoir of life with Mommy or Daddy if the gin-soaked parent is sufficiently famous.  I don’t drink, but I still need some kind of ersatz companionship while I write, and music doesn’t do it for me.  What I like to do is turn on the TV in the corner of my home office, and then mute the sound.  The caption option has to be turned off also, so if I happen to glance over there, I won’t get mesmerized by the scrolling sentences like a kitten when it sees something shiny.

The shows that work best are the Law & Order and NCIS-type programs where there’s action independent of dialogue.  Vintage grade-B TV is perfect, like reruns of T.J. Hooker with William Shatner, Heather Locklear, and two young dark-haired actors whose names escape me.  I could Google them for you, but you have a computer and if I do all the work here this blog loses its interactive quality.  The four lead actors have these enormous poufs of hair, either home grown or mass produced. The Hooker show is especially great because the acting is so bad you don’t really need to see more than the cops running down an alley out of the corner of your eye.  As for the dialogue, there is no reason on earth to hear the James Darren-type character – that’s who it is!  James Darren! – take the drugs away from some informant and say, “You’re going on a diet pal: cold turkey.”  I’m pretty sure my writing would suffer if that kind of thing was audible, even in the distance.

After I read that Stephen King always listens to music while he writes, I gave it a try, but music is too engaging for me.  If it’s classical, I get all dreamy or sleepy, and if it’s anything with a dance beat it’s too distracting.  I came of age with Saturday Night Fever and I still have some disco residue left inside me just waiting to Hustle out.  Jazz, with all its peaks and dives, makes me want to yell, “Get to the point already!”  And the Blues are, you know, the Blues.  When I’m listening to something, I need to give it my full attention and let it all in, which is why I’m not a candidate for audio books while driving.  Husband swears by them and has gone through dozens on his commute, but I know it would only take a few chapters of Freakonomics before I’d have my Sentra wrapped around a utility pole.

William Shatner and his toupee du jour, though, will never hurt you.  As I write this, off to my left I can just catch the dark-haired actor who isn’t James Darren striding into the station house in his one-size-too-small uniform and dazzling white smile.  That streak of blonde behind him must be Heather and her locks to leer at.  They are busy fighting all the crime coming at us in the 80’s, that era safely nestled between Son of Sam and al-Qaeda, a decade rendered innocent now by its lucky place in time.

Daughter’s Fotos showcase the Dunny Show at Halcyon

silent 1 dunnyninjabyalone

ninja by alone

silent 2 dunnyroycebannon

stunny by royce

silent 3 streetdunny

street dunny

silent 4 dunnymoody

moody

Posted in MindFrame | Tagged , , , | Comments Off on Silent Company