Learning To Play

It seems easy enough when you watch other people do it. 

One just casually places the soft pads of one's fingertips gently on the sweet spots on the neck. The other hand strums and plucks with confidence. Steel laughs and hums into the wooden cave, and then the miracle happens: beautiful ballads, haunting love songs, and soft pink lullabies waft forth.

Not.

The reality is that learning how to play my upright bass activates myriad uncharted neuropathways, all clamoring for personal and immediate attention. What note am I supposed to be playing? What string do I need to find, with both hands committed to completely different tasks? The tender tip of my finger needs to press the thick steel string on to the neck at precisely the right spot, and hit it HARD. 

I am to ignore the pain. 

Simultaneously, my right hand has its own assignment: damp the previous note, find and play the new one. All this while my short-term memory gropes for the words, and my ears, lungs, and vocal cords strain to croon like Diana Krall, with the whole thing on pitch and in perfect time. 

I know it's possible. I just don't know if it's possible without peeing my pants.

I'm seeing glimmers of hope, though. I played a whole song without an error yesterday. (Okay, there are only 2 open-string notes in the bass line of "Sally Goodin," so technically, you could do it on a set of well-tuned drums, but still....) I can play both the C and G scales in both directions. I figured out both "Frere Jacques" and "Doh! A Deer" by ear. 

Rick and I even wrote a song together: Silent Angels. We're going to perform it, as well as ten other songs, at a Rett Syndrome benefit concert in Teton Valley.

In front of many attentive people.

Just the two of us.

With nowhere to hide.

Excuse me. Gotta pull on the Depends and practice now.

Griddle Girl Rides Again

I have rediscovered the joys of making pancakes. It's been a while, but I'm back in the griddle.

Part of it is that I have the right equipment. The new cast iron scorcher and I have finally reached detente: I have agreed not to overheat its saucy bottom, and it has signed up for the breakfast "catch and release" program. Between a compliant cooking surface, the sturdy flipper, and enough cooling racks, I had all I needed but the motivation.

The San Jose Mercury News was the unlikely source of inspiration. They ran an article citing a panel of pancake experts, and I quothe: "Use real butter, real maple syrup, and don't beat the batter too much." How can you not be attracted to a food item so simple that a panel of experts couldn't find anything to fight about?

The article also included a multi-batch recipe for straight-up pancakes. Mix the dry ingredients in a big bucket and store in the cupboard. When the maple muse strikes, pull out three cups, add eggs, milk and a little melted butter, and voila! You'll be flapping these jacks before you know it.

The Green Queen

I am not green, yet.

At work today, I threw a personal-sized water bottle in the black bucket when the blue bucket was sitting right there beside it. This does not mean I'm a bad person. I took it back out and put it in the blue bucket. What it does mean is that I have not sufficiently trained myself to make greener choices by habit. The very fact I had a water bottle in my hand at all would be your first clue. 

I'm not okay with this, but I take solace in the knowledge that awareness is the first step in any improvement program. I'm heading in the right direction. Meanwhile, as I tag along at the end of the parade with horse poop on my sneakers, my sister Sandi is at the front with the big baton, leading the grass-roots band. She has the greenest It Starts With Me campaign of anyone I know personally, except maybe Pamela McDaniels, and I only know her from work.

Sandi unplugs her microwave and computer when she's not nuking seaweed for soup or editing stories for her online writers group. She sends old computer bits to recycle depots. She's on a first-name basis with the folks in the health food store where she buys all natural soap and cleaning products. She recycles used tea bags, although I forget for what... does she put them in the soil of her tomato plants to keep bugs away? She signs and forwards online petitions to ban the mining of uranium, and joined millions around the world in "Earth Hour," shutting down her electricity for one hour. Her search engine of choice? Blackle, an energy-saving version of Google.

The thing is, it's not just a focused devotion to a cause. Sandi actually celebrates Earth Day. She loves to sit and watch birds at the feeder, and will grow particular flowers because the hummingbirds like them. She really does stop and smell the roses. And there was nothing better than sitting on the warm rocks at the front of the cottage at sunset, soaking in the softness of the calm lake and listening to the loons.

Sandi, you're an inspiration. Happy Birthday! We sent some pretty flowers to let you know we love you. I only hope they were grown in composted organic soil and delivered by a guy driving a Prius.

Dim Sum Touches Heart

It's an incredible heart joy to stumble on a little authentic taste of home when you're in a foreign country. The unexpected whiff of fresh Johnnycake... the first flaky bite of tortiere on Christmas Eve... the scent of fresh-from-the-fryer poutine.... That's how I'd feel about dim sum at Loon Wah, if I were Chinese. 

I'm not. I'm Canadian, so for those less fortunate, the above food items translate into cornbread, spiced ground pork pie, and french fries covered in gravy and fresh cheese curds. But I do know the taste of someone else's home when I encounter it. Don't ask how: it's a gift, and so is Loon Wah. 

I should know, since I have eaten Saturday lunch there almost every week I've been in the SF Bay area for the past nine years. And I'm the one who bores quickly, remember? However, I never tire of the ballet. 

Daniel, Peter, Cathy, Mei and the rest of the crew move through the modest space like koi in a crowded pond, swooping smoothly from table to table with fresh place settings, bottles of ice cold beer, glass tubs of hot chili oil, the occasional fork, and steaming wicker baskets of non-MSG'ed goodness. 

The cart servers fly in from the shadows, and flit away with empty plates. Whatever it is that keeps fish from crashing into one another is in these waters as well. There's an open, unpretentious friendliness not just toward the customers, but between the staff. That kind of energy translates easily across cultures, no matter what's on the menu.

There are a few selections requiring a tad more gustatorial courage to broach than others, best introduced to your more intrepid dining partners (unless you think Aunt Tillie from Tuscon would like chicken feet, straight up). But even people who would prefer eating at the McDonald's next door will find plenty to delight their delicate palates. 

Unwrap a steamed lotus leaf and discover the piping-hot niceness of sticky rice waiting inside. Drizzle rice vinegar on a pot sticker tinted lightly with chili oil and wash it down with a hit of Tsingtao. Wrap your dimples around the dumplings known as "chiu chow." Before you know it, you'll be asking yourself, "How come Mom never made dumplings stuffed with peanuts, chives, and tiny bits of pork in a slightly sweet sauce when I was a little kid? Why didn't she give me beer? Why don't we have a tuba?" 

You'll ask the question because you'll start feeling at home. 

"Dim sum" translates literally to "touch heart," and I guess that's why we keep going back. I'd rather eat at a place that serves "touch heart" than one that only delivers "fill belly," any day.

The Gripper

Spoiler warning: This post contains very girly concepts. If you're likely to break out in a rash at such ickiness, bail out now and come back on Sunday. We'll be posting riveting new ramblings on our favorite Bay Area dim sum restaurant, Loon Wah. It will be much easier on the testosteroney ganglions, I assure you. 

A few years back, I was facing the fashion challenge of being "mother o' the bride" in what was shaping up to be a stinking hot July. I knew I wasn't going to make it through the day in pantyhose. We hates pantyhose. My inner respirator was lodging fair warning of a strike-to-rule union action, and as we all know, it's not nice to fool with your air intake valve. 

Yet, without some shape wear assistance, my dress was going to fall squarely in the category of "too much information." I felt if I could just find something as lightweight as pantyhose with the legs cut off, that would do the trick. Except... I have tried strategic alterations of pantyhose, and it never goes well. In fact, it goes places you had never imagined newly-freed pantyhose could roll themselves in to. 'Nuff said.

Off I went to Macy's "foundational garments" section with grand hopes and a high-limit credit card.

Armed with about 8 different brands, sizes, and control options, I hit the busy dressing room. By the time I had tried on and taken off the first seven items, I had broken a major sweat and had stubbed my toe twice in the "dancing out of tight underpants" routine in the limited floorspace. However, I was willing to give the cause one more shot. Unfortunately, I had left the most robust "control" item to the last.

I'm not prone to anxiety attacks, but by the time I had struggled and squished myself into place, I will confess to a rising level of panic. It was like sticking your head through stair railings: once you got there, the view wasn't as great as you had anticipated, and now you were facing the really tricky part. 

I needed out. Quickly. 

It became apparent that the only way I could successfully liberate myself was to roll the whole shebang off my thighs like a rubber band off a newspaper. The beast came to life, picking up steam as it hit my ankles, whistling off into the corner of the dressing room. After a few jerky death flails, it lay in a four-inch square of unrecognizable spent spandex. I let out a little hysterical bark. The changing room chatter dulled to an alert silence.

I clearly was not going to spend good after-tax dollars on an apparatus that would have been banned by the Geneva Conventions. However, I couldn't bring myself to return the involuted mess to the attendant in its current condition. 

Grabbing what looked like the waist hole with my right hand, I felt for the thigh opening with my left. I got it on the first try, so I gave 'er a good yank and, voila! I wrenched it back into its correct orientation, holding it extended at full arms-length for five seconds so we were both clear as to who had the upper hand. Unfortunately, instead of letting go of the waist opening, the stress of the previous fifteen minutes caused me to lose my head. I let go with my left hand first. The elasticized thigh opening came ricocheting directly towards my face, with the price tag boomeranging around the edge. The stinging impact left me with a gaping wound on my nose. 

Okay, "gaping" might be a stretch, but it was bleeding.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, I started to howl with laughter... in a nervously quiet dressing room. A voice from three cubicles down called out, "What ARE you trying on? I want one!" 

I looked at the offending tag. "It's called 'The Gripper.'" In seconds, one could hardly hear oneself pant for breath over the ensuing snorts and sniggers.

The nose wound has healed, but the emotional scars remain. So... this should explain a lot.

The Cheese Kid In The Carmel Cheese Shop

We wandered in and weren't five steps across the threshold before The Cheese Kid was unwrapping the cellophane off of half a wheel of some cheese so creamy and delicate he didn't cut it: he scraped off two glistening pearls on to the sides of a wide knife, like butter. Without so much as a "Hello... allergic to dairy?" he leaned across the counter, paddle extended. 

So right off the bat, I figured out you don't have to cut the cheese. (And to all my readers who delight in a good ol' fashioned sophomoric flatulence riff, I say: be strong!) You are apparently permitted to scrape, paddle, rip, dip, or squish a mouthful off the round in whatever way gets the job done. For someone who has been trying to hack delicately away at melty Camembert for decades, this comes as a great relief. And this from a twenty-something to whom we had not yet been formally introduced. 

"Here, try some of that. It's a saucy little 2006 goat's milk Gouda with hints of butter and dill, made in the direct light of a full moon by Armenian trolls. It's a big seller." Honestly, I can't quite remember exactly what he said. All I remember is thinking, "I'm in cheese sample heaven, and it doesn't even look like there's a tasting fee." The sample details elude me, but what lingers is just how freaking good the cheese tasted. 

I don't know if we looked like we were wealthy, or large consumers of cheese, or hungry, but the wheels kept rolling on to the sample cutting board. With an evening "sampler" cheese plate in mind, though, we had to get down to it. But how to "pair" cheeses?

"Well," said Cheese Kid, "I like to think of the process by theme."

I'm telling you, if this retail gig doesn't work out for CK, there is a robust career in consulting waiting for him in Silicon Valley. Anyone who can answer a "how to" question with a full-blown thinking model is gold in these parts.

"I go with either year, milk type, region, varietal... anything that helps compare one thing to another."

What epiphanies abound in that sentence! I love that there's no wrong answer here, just like Bill and his theory about wine pairings. I always appreciate the opportunity to be right.

Of equal importance is that this approach keeps your cheese-mixin' options open for years into the future. As I tend to bore quickly, plan to be around for a long time, and intend on eating a lot of cheese, that's good news. In addition, consider the permutations and combinations of the major food groups of Northern California: an unlimited variety of cheeses, wines, olives, breads, tapas, and chocolates. Youíll quickly belly up to the astounding reality that even if you never leave the San Francisco Bay area, you wonít have to eat the same meal twice for as long as you can keep from tipping off the perch. And if you travel at all, the possibilities are equivalent to thinking, "How far is up?"

Thanks, Cheese Kid. You're quite the culinary philosopher. Plus, you sell great cheese.

[Note: The word "cheese" appears 16 times above. By all measures, that's a LOT of repetition, so I did a thesaurus search to see if I could mix it up a bit. No joy: further research revealed that the only synonym for "cheese" is "tofu," and that's only true in those awful health food stores that sell fake cheese.]

How Not To Look Old

I'm just going to have to get the ugly facts on the table right up front.

I have bought and read the book How Not To Look Old

I love it.

I've learned tons. I have been through both my shoe and clothing closets with a gritty determination I normally reserve for removing burnt-on lasagna from a favorite casserole dish. (It happens, on occasion.) I've dumped dark lipsticks I had worn just the week before. I had Jafar cut in bangs. I've bought more new face goop than I have ever owned before so I can look like I still don't need it.

I liked the straight up, "Girls, we're gonna call a wrinkle a wrinkle" writing. She knows that women want to buy a little tub of reasonably priced pink froth, pat it on their face, and look better, thinner, AND younger.

"Diet and exercise are essential to staying healthy over the long haul. There isn't a woman alive who doesn't already know that. Eating salmon and doing yoga are good things for sure, but they won't give instant results. Other anti-aging books tell you to run a bath, light a candle, chant and practice acceptance. Not this one. We want real, visible, results." Speaking on behalf of all over-the-long-haulers of a certain age, I say, "Sign us up!"

You'll note the shift to the plural pronoun there. I decided it was such a great asset that I would give copies to all my long-haulish friends. And that's when it got tricky. How do you give women in the salmon/yoga/candle/acceptance stage of life a book with the title How Not To Look Old staring them right in the face? Trust me, it's not as easy as it looks.

But I love my friends, so I decided to brave the possibility of offense. Having given away at least 12 copies so far, I'd like to share what I've learned.

Order drinks. Make sure at least half a Cosmo is down the hatch before before handing it over.

Wrap it. The gentle alcohol buzz, coupled with the pleasure of tugging on bows and peeling back tape, will still be fresh by the time the implication of the title sinks in.

Avoid saying things like, "This is for you! It's great. Hope you enjoy it." All true statements, but coupled with the title, you may find yourself sitting alone at a table with two half-consumed Cosmos, a huge plate of nachos, and the bill. It's much better to consider something like, "You don't need what I'm about to give you. However, you have given me so much great advice over the years, I know you'll have other friends you'll want to loan this to. Think of this as a gift for your library."

Finally, immediately flip to the chapter on how to buy great jeans. Highlight the section on how to recognize "mommy jeans" in your own closet, and kill them. Point out you can learn how to choose the right shoes for your perfect jeans, what kind of pockets and how high up, etc. Most importantly, have a sticky note on the "Brilliant Buys" pages that give specifics on where to buy all the brands mentioned at a wide range of prices. Then slide quickly to, "And look! It's the same thing for the chapters on glasses, hair, make-up, underwear...."

How not to look old in your underwear?

By the time you take a breath, she's ordered two fresh Cosmos and is canceling her evening appointments. She's got some reading to do. And, she's still your friend.

I write this today because the book is coming out in paperback in just a week or so. You will buy this book (if I haven't bought it for you already). And then you'll want to share it with your friends. And now you know how it's done.

xxxxxxxxxxx

May 9, 2009
P.S. Dear Anonymous, thanks for your question, "Is there an equivalent book and set of lessons for men?"

Beyond "don't wear a hat when driving" and "avoid hitching your belt directly under your nipples," I am sad to say I think you're on your own. So far... Where there's a demographic, there's a book. Hang in there.

What I Learned From Bill Williamson

The Williamsons make and share some very fine wine in lovely Healdsburg, California.

Plus, Bill Williamson knows more about the inside of my mouth than my dentist or I do. This is both disturbing and a real shame. However, as a result of a ridiculously informative, hilarious, and occasionally out-of-control tutorial on the landscape of my taste buddies, I am rapidly catching up.

What I learned from Bill:

1. Wine changes stuff.

Of course, I already knew this, but in a more limited sense. For example, I already knew that wine can change a Canaan wedding from another unmemorable event to "Honey, bring that empty wine skin! Vinny just uncorked the GOOD stuff!" It can change how good I sound when I sing, or my ability (and desire) to count calories. It can transform a train ride from just a way to get from east to west, to a life-long memory of drinking champagne out of paper cups.

Bill enlightened.

Wine changes the flavors you can find in food. Honestly, there is bliss for your taste buds in Irish cheddar you never even knew existed. I'm not going to explain it all here, mostly because Bill is downright effusive in his generosity.

He says at the outset of the pairing experience, "If you want more of anything, just ask." And darn it, as the time ticks by, you realize he means exactly what he says. Having a great time? Really enjoying that particular wine and want just one more chance to try it with the truffle oil salt against the Parmesan cheese? If you have that look on your face and your glass is empty... Poof! A lovely winery elf, Mrs. Williamson, appears with extra splashes for all. They made me feel like I was a dear old friend over for dinner after a few years absence. They also made me feel like I should just surrender to the moment and not worry about taking notes.

And this is why I won't try to explain how Bill made Williamson chocolate give up a more serious hit of cocoa than you would believe possible: the Lovely Winery Elf visited our table frequently, and I can't remember much that Bill said, except for Number 2 below.

2. There is no such thing as the right wine for the right food. Every wine is distinct. Therefore, each wine will bring a slightly different something to any food you put in your mouth at the same time. The only thing required of you is to close your eyes and chew. Do this with Bill's magnificent Cabernet Sauvignon, and you end up awash in a delicious existential understanding that there's not one thing more important you need to be doing right now. Of course, as I have learned in cooking, this "pairing freedom" still leaves a wide open window to the possibility of putting two very good ideas in isolation into a very bad relationship, like the honey-and-mustard sandwiches my sister made as a kid, for instance.

So there are a couple of rules, after all.

Bill made it easy. He explained in simple terms how to think about wine varietals with families of food flavors, and then gave ample samples of both so you get the point. I won't illuminate further. See #1 above.

Maybe the final thing Bill taught me was the most important, and better caught than taught. You’ll just have to go see for yourself.

3. It's possible to do what you love.

How I Almost Chipped A Tooth On An Inflatable Bed

I should have read the fine print more carefully.

The copy said, "The incredibly comfortable Inflatable Memory Foam Raised Queen Airbed Mattress by Intex quickly and easily inflates with a convenient wired remote control. Remote can also gradually release air if the mattress is too firm. Inflates in about three minutes. Deflates for travel and storage."

There isn't an untrue word in that entire piece.

It did inflate quickly. It was as comfortable (amazingly so, actually) as promised. And the remote did function to gradually release enough air to adjust the firmness. With time, you could go from the uber-firmness setting of "Why am I not just sleeping on the floor?" to the squishy bounce of "If he abruptly rolls over once more and slingshots me from a dead sleep to within inches of the ceiling again, I'm going to change my name to Giselle and join Cirque de Soleil." The tricky bit came when Rick and our delightful company left for the airport. I thought, "I'll just tidy up quickly and put the bed away."

The remote did as advertised. It gradually released enough air to adjust the firmness of the mattress. And no more. In my opinion, we had barely begun to creep into the "Trampoline Giselle" Zone of Support when the gentle breath of air that was shushing out of the bed stopped.

Problem #1: I could hear the motor humming along, but breeze had died down and could not be resurrected, no matter how many times I revved the engine. And I still had a queen-sized bed that needed to fit into a storage bag the size of a single-occupant kitty carrier. I couldn't find the instructions and figured they had been thrown out with the box. Oh well. I'm smarter than an air mattress.

Near the remote control connection in the side edge, I noticed two big black valve covers, one for each chamber. With resignation and a silent promise to God that I would read the ad copy more carefully for future online purchases, I flipped open the opened the top covers so I could start the process of manual air release.

Problem #2: There didn't appear to be any internal hole plugger-upper doomahickey. All there was, in both deep narrow valve orifices, was a thick filament of plastic, as though the manufacturers had left a rubber thread hanging. I poked my finger around in one and was startled to be rewarded with a loud blap of air. Unfortunately, as soon as I moved my finger a micron, it stopped. After a minute (really) of gentle probing and intense concentration, I figured out how a light pressure applied directly to the top of the wisp of rubbery plastic would open the flood gates of air.

Thus, the plan: if I sprawled on top of the mattress and held my two hands above my head and reached around down to the valves--and if I could maintain the finicky angle of attack that was necessary to keep the valves open--I would eventually best the beast. And I remembered no one said it would be easy. Or quick. Or painless.

Problem #3: Hours passed. (Okay, the whole experience was 47 minutes from beginning to end, but trust me. It felt like hours.) As the mattress s-l-o-w-l-y deflated, my fingers kept shifting and the air would stop flowing. Eventually though, with my fingers frozen in place and the feeling leaving my arms, I did feel my belly gently touch down on the floor. However, I was just one woman in the middle of an only partially deflated 20-inch high queen-sized bed. While my body was now resting solidly on terra ferma, there was still a solid wall of inflated blue vinyl towering above me on either side of my prone self. (Think of a hot dog nestled in the bottom of an over-sized bun.) The only way I was going to force out more air was to roll around. But you see the issue here, don't you?

Problem #4: I couldn't roll around and keep my fingers in place. That's when it occurred to me: if I doubled the mattress on top of itself, I could make a run for it, flop on top like an Olympian high-jumper, and reach WAY around to the bottom layer where the valves lived. A concerted application of gravity-induced pressure, some fine finger dexterity, time, a little luck, and, voila! I'd be off to other campaigns. Fortune favors the bold, so I implemented.

All I can say is that for once I was glad I have long arms and determined toes: I was now perched without a net on top of three feet of bouncing, slippery vinyl, like a circus bear on a balance ball. Except bears apparently have a better sense of balance than I do. Despite my best efforts to keep my fingers in place, my toes dug into the carpet behind me for balance, and my focus riveted on staying still, I started to roll forward.

It must have been a combination of the plastic fumes I was inhaling with my head upside down over top of the releasing air, and my determination not to lose purchase on a proven finger angle. No matter the reason, by this time I was in a zen-like stupor. I'm just glad I only bashed my head into the wall. If I'd been let loose on a longer trajectory before making contact, I have no doubt I would have hit the floor with such enthusiasm I could have chipped a tooth. Thank God for small mercies.

A quick shower rinsed away the sweat of battle and the bump is already receding, so it's all good. The mattress is still taking up one third the bedroom, but it will just have to wait now until the cavalry comes home. (I've got the video camera batteries charging as we speak.)

P. S. Ironically, Rick created the 4-panel cartoon a week before our company arrived. I thought you might enjoy both stories.

P. P. S. The cavalry just came home, listened to my story, walked up to the valves, and unscrewed the covers, leaving a huge hole behind. The mattress deflated the rest of the way while we stood there and watched. He then walked over to the storage bag, reached in to the bag, and removed the instructions for use. The valve I was messing with is for inflating the bed with a conventional foot or manually operated air pump.

I don't know whether to kiss the cavalry or pinch him for being so smart and/or hiding the instructions in the bag. And if you see me running with scissors, stop me.

Return On Investment

We listened to a motivational speaker/ stock market maven for eight hours this past Saturday. I learned enough about “trailing stop losses” and “covered calls” through the day to keep my butt squished into a sardine-stacker chair in an overheated, windowless ballroom with 400 of my new best friends as we dutifully answered questions like, “How many of you wish you hadn’t lost most of your 401(k) last year?” Man, in hindsight—meaning looking backwards through the lens of my sore tush—I really must have needed those scraps of investing information that squeaked through the motivational fog.

The speaker was your classic energy-in-a-bun. He was mildly entertaining and possibly even well-versed in his subject matter. This last quality remains a mystery, since his prime directive was, apparently, to positively shift our collective certainty that we did not think we could do what he was not quite getting around to teaching us. His relentless pursuit of this goal was impressive. What was not impressive was the depth of content covered and his lack of originality in attempting humor.

How many of you  have heard the following “lines” from the stage? (Hands up, everybody!! I need you to stay interactive here! You only get out of this what you put in to it!)

• I was in the half of the class that made the top half possible.

• Is having more money better than having less? Yes or yes?

• [regarding a bathroom break]… at least this time I remembered to turn off my microphone.

• [someone in the audience sneezed] Bless you. Did I tell you about my uncle who died from a sneeze? He was in the closet of another man’s apartment.

I was just grateful we were spared the “… like herding cats” and “Cross your arms. Now cross them the other way. How does that feel? Yes, change is uncomfortable.”

Okay, so this sounds a little cranky perhaps, but please, cut me some slack. While the portfolio is now lightly polished (decent ROI on the day), my rump is still in recovery.

Women and Their Spidey Sense

I was out for a drink with three gal pals tonight after work, and talk turned to women and safety.

Debra mentioned she had stayed at work until 9-ish last night, and just as she was thinking about packing it in, she heard someone else leave her floor. The thought flashed through her mind: I'll just quickly unplug and tail-gate that guy out to the parking lot. However, one last email and a few minor clean ups at her desk later, and the moment was lost. Now she was alone in the building with a lot of dark space (okay, at least 15 feet, but still....) between the well-lit doorway of the building and her car. Should she phone security to walk her to her car?

Okay, folks, on the count of three... One, two, three... YES!

Ladies, ladies, ladies... can we talk?

Listen to your spidey sense. Listen to your spidey sense. Listen to your spidey sense.

If your spidey sense is saying, "The little shit is skipping school again," or "He's having an affair," or "I should call security to walk me to my car..."
PAY ATTENTION!

I could wax eloquent about how our culture downplays the role of female intuition as flaky and likely to land you a spot on a "Witches 'R Us" infomercial. I could cite statistics about who gets mugged and how they kinda knew they were being scoped before the fact. I could relay the latest email round of "Beware! Beware!" scare mail that snopes.com effectively debunks, but why?

Listen to me: listen to your belly. Don't worry what you might look like, who you might inconvenience, or who you might embarrass. Most of the time, when it all goes right, the only one at risk for all of the above is you.

If you ignore your belly, it could go very wrong.

On The Fun Of Miscommunication

Kids are great at aural typos. Growing up in the Bronx, my friend Richard spent years thinking that an outrageously expensive item cost “a nominal egg.” (Say it out loud with a Bronx accent: you'll get it.) Emily once declared that her sister's "smelly button" was peeking out from under the edge of her shirt. For her part, on confronting a big splat of mashed potatoes on her plate, Kate declared with a sigh of despair that it was simply "too bunch," a pretty efficient hybrid of the concepts "too much" and a "whole bunch." I can't remember Mathias being prone to this, though. I guess growing up Third Child in a household with the "lose your breath, lose your turn" rule fully in force has a way of reinforcing the value of just pointing to what you want.

Just to be clear, kids don't have the market cornered on this behavior. I spent an hour one Sunday morning in profound confusion over the Reformed Presbyterian Church’s apparent endorsement of the practice of “exclusive sodomy.” Turns out they meant singing only psalms in corporate worship, a practice known as “exclusive psalmody.” Made for an interesting discussion group after the service, though.

On Industrial Design

I am a street-level connoisseur of fine industrial design. The latest consumable to hit my A-list is our new double-walled stainless steel Bodum french press coffee maker. I tell you, a coffee pot that can't break and keeps the coffee hot in the container in which it was made is a good idea. When you add to that a properly placed handle that balances well in your hand when the pot is full of coffee... that becomes a great idea. But pile on top a spout that fires the coffee directly to the bulls-eye of what you were aiming for, with a spout length and angle that does not dribble all the way back to the kitchen? Freakin' brilliant. Is Bodum the Danish word for "apple"?

Also on my A-list: my KitchenAid mix-masher. And before you dash to the comment box to correct my typo, I do mean "masher." Kate decided it thus when, about 26 years ago, she watched me use one to make banana bread. It's quiet, powerful, well-balanced, and sized correctly for a woman's hand. It’s a pretty retro-robin's-egg-blue, and it doesn't have 39 speeds. It winds up to full speed gradually in your cookie batter so you don't get that explosion of flour in your face like you do with those 0-60 mph in one second brands. I'd buy a KitchenAid car if I could.

Of course, anywhere there's an A-list, there's a B-list. As follows:

1. Items ensconced in impenetrable plastic packaging. I once bought a pair of shears designed specifically to hack their way through that evil crap, but I couldn't get them out of the packaging so I threw them away.

2. Clothing labels that sneak up and bite you in the back of the neck just when you are too far down the road to turn around and pick a different sweater. First of all, they're sneaky and you don't notice them immediately. Secondly, some of the worst offenders are on clothes that parade themselves around in the "comfortable" section of Macy's. Sure, the blouse may be 1000-count pima Egyptian organic free-trade unscented biodegradable cotton, but that little label that reminds you how fat you are and that you're gonna pay $6 to get the thing dry-cleaned only? It's an amalgam of sand, poison oak, and scrap metal from the wreck of the Exxon Valdez.

What's on your A-list and B-list?

Some Rulings, Please, On Public Restroom Cell Phone Etiquette

I'm confused. And possibly psychologically scarred for life. This is serious, I tell you... I may have permanent public release issues.

I walked in and could hear one woman laughing. A quick scan revealed three open doors in a four-stall configuration. She was on her phone.

If I had only given myself a bit more time between office and destination, I would have about faced and bolted for the restroom at the other end of the floor. Sadly, I hadn't. Committed, I whipped in, unzipped, and settled in with haste. The extent of my dilemma sank in just as quickly.

Under the best of circumstances (i. e. none of the current residents are on a cell phone), I  am occasionally startled and appalled at the complete absence of sound baffling in all but the swankiest of public restrooms. Imagine my distress, then, in a tile-o-rama bouncer as I contemplated the sonic and social repercussions of my doing what I actually came rushing in to do?! Would I be interrupting the conversation? If so, is the onus on me to apologize? Or do I just go retro and say "Build a bridge and get over it: this is MY cubicle!" and un-dam the torpedoes?

I mean really.... I was just trying to balance the morning's coffee volume to bladder equation, and here I was: literally exposed to a social conundrum that I frankly did not have time to figure out. 

Will someone please weigh in on this thorny question? Is it kosher to chat while you pitter-pat in public? Should institutional restrooms be obliged to enforce a "no cell-phone zone" policy? I need some help here...

And while we're at it: Ladies, please... Can we agree just to sit all the way down and pee INTO the bowl?

On Tendonosis

I injured my left Achilles tendon running last March (yes, it is possible to actually outrun your own feet). Last year was crazy busy with all manner of transitions. Some things like regular exercise, flossing teeth daily, and nursing a low-grade injury sometimes just didn't happen.

Over the past few months, a cyst-looking lump formed on my tendon. I went to a sports medicine specialist about it a few weeks ago and learned that my condition had advanced to tendonosis. Worse than tendonitis (an inflammation of the tendon), tendonosis happens when the tendon has been injured but not tended to for so long that the new cells start growing back at random, misaligned angles, like a bird's nest. The result is what Dr. Blue calls a "cruddy tendon."

It's painful and it compromises normal activities, like running and even walking. The solution involves ultrasound plus stretching, strengthening, and balance exercises. In addition, the treatment incorporates "friction massage." This is apparently done most effectively by sticking two very muscular thumbs into the most painful section of the tendon and attempting to reach up through the person's body to pick their nose through the back door.

Now, I'm not sure what the value is of a clean nose to the rehab of a funky ankle. However, on this one, I'm buying in on blind faith and blowing my nose as often as I can remember. It's the same kind of this-is-how-we've-always-done-it-don't-ask-questions thing as taking the end of a cucumber and rubbing it vigorously against the cut edge of the remaining body. According to Granny Lever, someone back in the family lineage said it prevented the cucumber from being bitter, like it somehow sucked all the lip-pucker right out of that puppy. I never could figure out how that math might work, but I still rub the cuke. It makes me feel connected.

Where was I?

Oh yes... Note to self: take time to tend to small injuries. (And the Aesop's expanded notes would say, "... between yourself and others for sure, and probably between yourself and your tendons as well.") Look after yourself even if it feels like it might inconvenience the world a bit. It's like breathing: it's allowed.

Fancier Science Deficient: Neither Ancient Societal Species Has Sufficient Policies

English is a ridiculous language.

Our grammar, spelling, and usage rules appear only to exist so that the exceptions have something to lean against.

The "science" of the language, as intricate and exhaustive as it represents itself to be in tomes such a Fowler's Modern English Usage or the venerable Oxford English Dictionary, is in reality relegated to the status of the movies at The Oscars: mere gray backdrop for the real action of who shows up wearing whom, on whose arm, attending which stunning smile-when-you-don't-mean-it-because-you-lost party.

Yes, rules are rules, except when they aren't, as in most of English spelling.

Thus the reality of an unfortunate native-tongue speaker of a straight-up, WYSIWYG language such as German or Latin, where the rules are reliable and sturdy on their little brown legs, and leaning is discouraged as slothful.

Learning English must really suck lemons.

Take the title of this post. Aside from the word "has" (and were I less lazy, I'm sure I could have come up with a substitute that would have further proved my point), every word is a perfectly spelled scofflaw. Each breaks The Rule "I before E, except after C."

And that's just the Coles/Cliff notes version of the rule. The full version is, "I before E, except after C, or when sounding like "eh?" as in "neighbour" or "weigh." And even within that expanded rule, one encounters the Canadian versus American spelling controversy of "'u,' versus 'no u.'" And even at THAT, one stumbles over the "What is the correct way to indicate a quotation within a quotation?" question.

English. Weird.

Prince From The Prairie

I have never done this before and am not likely to again, but I just can't help myself. I'm using this hallowed ground to re-publish an article written by one of my favorite authors, Garrison Keillor. I can't remember when I have been more delighted by three short paragraphs, plus any writer who can use the word “blottohead” in a sentence must know he's going to be plagiarized. Enjoy!

Be happy, dear hearts, and allow yourselves a few more weeks of quiet exultation. It isn't gloating, it's satisfaction at a job well done. He was a superb candidate, serious, professorial but with a flashing grin and a buoyancy that comes from working out in the gym every morning. He spoke in a genuine voice, not senatorial at all. He relished campaigning. He accepted adulation gracefully. He brandished his sword against his opponents without mocking or belittling them. He was elegant, unaffected, utterly American, and now (Wow) suddenly America is cool. Chicago is cool. Chicago!!! We threw the dice and we won the jackpot and elected a black guy with a Harvard degree, the middle name Hussein and a sense of humor he said, "I've got relatives who look like Bernie Mac, and I've got relatives who look like Margaret Thatcher." The French junior minister for human rights said, "On this morning, we all want to be American so we can take a bite of this dream unfolding before our eyes." When was the last time you heard someone from France say they wanted to be American and take a bite of something of ours? Ponder that for a moment.

The world expects us to elect pompous yahoos, and instead we have us a 47-year-old prince from the prairie who cheerfully ran the race, and when his opponents threw sand at him, he just smiled back. He'll be the first president in history to look really good making a jump shot. He loves his classy wife and his sweet little daughters. At the same time, he knows pop music, American lit and constitutional law. I just can't imagine anybody cooler.
It feels good to be cool, and all of us can share in that, even sour old right-wingers and embittered blottoheads. Next time you fly to Heathrow and hand your passport to the man with the badge, he's going to see "United States of America " and look up and grin. Even if you worship in the church of Fox, everyone you meet overseas is going to ask you about Obama, and you may as well say you voted for him because, my friends, he is your line of credit over there. No need any more to try to look Canadian.

Garrison Keillor
Source: forwarded by a friend in gmail

P.S. At 12:37 EST, January 20, 2009, I decided I wanted to become an American citizen, so Mr. Keillor's statements are accurate, at least in my universe. And let us have no brandishing of snow shovels in my direction from my friends and family in the Great White North: I'm still delighted to look and be Canadian.

A Birthday Epiphany

I have walked this planet for 50 years now, give or take a week or so. And for roughly 25 years of those, I've been a just a little bit late.
The problem is not just the chronic rudeness of keeping other people waiting for me, as bad as that is, or having to crawl in front of six sets of knees five minutes into the main feature. The real cost is that I fret the whole way to whatever it is I'm late for (living in the future) and then feel badly about it once I actually arrive (living in the past). In all that flurry, where is the present?
It makes me a tad melancholy to reflect on how much of the beauty, education, rest and/or joy I've missed in the journey "in between" the events that mark my life.
At the half-way place--now there's some optimism for you!--I'm very clear that the journey IS the event. If I'm not present in the spaces in between, I'm missing a huge chunk of my own life. And life right now, in full health, well employed with an interesting job and great people, with more friends than I know what to do with… Life is good!
Here's how I've explained the math to myself: from now on, if I can be five minutes early for the "events," then I figure I'll not only really be here for all the years left, but I may even win back a few I've dropped along the way. Or at least, it will feel that way.
What have you talked to yourself about lately? I'd love to know.

A Great Question

On Monday, I watched footage of President Obama working a crowd at an elementary school. He must have connected with at least 10 people in the one minute video. Each time, he would grasp their hand, make eye contact and say the same thing: "Hi! What's your name?"
I've thought about this a lot in the intervening couple of days. The question "What's your name?" was so obviously intentional and incredibly effective in moving him through as many hands as he could get to. From a communications strategy perspective, I'm fascinated: why that question?
I have come up with a two-part hypothesis. First, I think he and his advisors are well aware that shaking hands with a man who will become the President of the United States within 24 hours is a staggering experience for most ordinary people. It's a sure-fire line drive into "deer-in-the-headlights 'I can't think of a thing to say!'" territory. What better way to give an intimidated person an immediate piece of firm conversational ground than to ask them the one question they are sure to remember in the glare of the moment: their name.
I think the second reason it was such an effective approach is that it permitted the swiftest, most profound interaction possible between a Great Man and an ordinary citizen. He gave them his hand, eye contact, full attention, and miracle of miracles, something short and intelligent to say. At his prompting, they gave him the most valuable thing they possess: their identity. He gets in, connects with huge impact, and with a quick "Joan, thanks for being here" or similar reuse of their name, moves on. Having said a single word and engaged for five full seconds, they stand in the glow that the President of the United States knows their name.
Brilliant economy of conversation. Wish I'd thought of it.