A week ago I got to experience a minor holiday nightmare. O'Hare was so fogged in that I was getting calls from friends in other states, asking if my flight had been canceled. No, it wasn't, I assured all the inquiring minds, as I stepped from the cab into a mile long line of curbside checkers.
The people on the Weather Channel had announced to out of state viewers that everything in Chicago was canceled. What were they smoking? Nothing was canceled. At least not when I looked up at the monitor. But with the WC predicting doom and gloom, I decided to prepare for a long delay.
Imagine my shock when we loaded the plane and pulled back from the gate only fifteen or so minutes behind schedule. By O'Hare standards that was practically early. Of course, now you're thinking they just lulled us into believing we would actually take off, so you can say TOLD YA SO when I reveal that we went to the tarmac and parked. Except that didn't happen. We actually seemed to be in line for takeoff. A long line, but we were moving, albeit slo-o-o-wly.
Luckily I had food with me to fend off any boredom -- a forty dollar sandwich from Starbuck's and some Odwalla Mango Tango. When that ran out I had magazines. And I can sleep almost anywhere. Amazing how time passes when you're unconscious.
Surprisingly, in less than half an hour we were taking off. That was almost too easy. I relaxed and enjoyed the flight. In fact, when we landed at our destination in Norfolk, VA. I actually got off the plane, full of anticipation, looking forward to a week of family, fun, and Christmas.
Not so fast, tinsel breath. Your travel day has been entirely too easy. While we picked up our rental car, we sent a skycap to get our luggage. He never returned.
Apparently there was no luggage to pick up. Along with twenty other people on the flight, our bags didn't make the trip. It was still back in Chicago. But, wait, there was a chance it might be put on the next flight. Maybe. A chance.
Tick tock, tick tock. Ta-da! After only an hour we got word the bags had been scanned. They were on a plane. Okay, then, where is that plane now, Mr. Lost Baggage Person? Um. It's on the tarmac in Chicago.
It was still on the tarmac an hour later.
Make that two hours later. Three hours later.
Then all of a sudden the plane on the tarmac in Chicago was going to land in less than half an hour. How can that happen? Easy, they lie.
Norfolk, VA. is home to a couple of Naval and Air Force bases. One of the people also waiting for phantom luggage was a member of an Air Force band. We might need our presents, clothing and toiletries, but he was missing his trombone.
Together we all watched the arrival board above the baggage carousel like it was the Discovery Channel -- first to see if the plane would actually arrive, second to see if our luggage would arrive with it.
The plane landed. One wait was over. Now the real wait began.
Tick tock, tick tock, forty minutes passed. Suddenly the orange light on the carousel began to flash, followed by a horrible buzzing noise to warn everyone their luggage may or may not be here, so don't get your hopes up.
Instead of signing up to have our luggage delivered the next day, like almost everyone else, we'd taken a chance that everything was really on the next plane, even though we kept being told that the next plane was still sitting on the tarmac.
But everything arrived in one piece. We found our stuff and the Air Force guy found his trombone too. He opened up the case to make sure all the parts were there, so I asked him if he would play us a Christmas tune. Something to celebrate our unexpected good luck. "Sure." And right there in front of dozens of passengers he did a wonderful rendition of a Mel Torme classic.
To great applause from everyone. And much appreciation.
You never know where and when the good feelings of Christmas are going to make an appearance. Rarely do you expect anything at an airport. But this year, for me, the warm fuzzies began at the United Express baggage carousel in Norfolk, Virginia.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Gingerbread Demolition
Few family traditions capture the joy of the holiday season
quite like destroying a homemade gingerbread house.
quite like destroying a homemade gingerbread house.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Holiday Cheer
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Fe11OlMiz8
Click on the link to hear the Indiana University Men's Choir, STRAIGHT NO CHASER, singing their rendition of the 12 Days of Christmas.
It's very entertaining.
Click on the link to hear the Indiana University Men's Choir, STRAIGHT NO CHASER, singing their rendition of the 12 Days of Christmas.
It's very entertaining.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
It's Only A Game
Everybody is tied in a knot over what message Jamie Spears' teenage pregnancy will send to girls between the ages of 8 and 14. Here's one message: You can pretty much do what you want when you're rich.
On the other hand, if Baby Sister Spears were living on a desert island without the encumbrances of the moral majority, a voracious media, a stupid mother, a bipolar sister, a children's network contract, and a boatload of money, her pregnancy would be a non issue. If a tree falls in the forest does it make a sound? If a sixteen year old pregnant girl lives alone on a desert island, is there a story?
Not until it's time to deliver the baby. Given her body's lack of maturity and her small size, chances are little Miss Spears would have a difficult labor. At a top tier medical center hers might even be considered a high risk pregnancy. But out there on the desert island there ain't no neo natal types hanging out under the palm trees. Nope, she's going to have nothing to help her and the baby get through the birth but sand and coconuts. Okay, the father of her spawn can be there. Like that helps.
Chances are very high that Jamie or the baby, or both Jamie and the baby, would die in childbirth. It's her first baby, she's very young, her body is immature. Yep, death is an option. So are cerebral palsy, skull fractures, dislocated limbs, and many other possibilities.
I think we forget that the greatest threat to a woman or baby's life, before the world had antibiotics, emergency c-sections, and more monitors than a NASA space flight, was surviving childbirth.
Nowadays women don't expect to die while having a baby. Ah, but there are so many other ways for babies to put an end to your life as you knew it without having to kill you.
So to help young girls understand that babies are not dolls you can put away in the closet when you're tired of playing with them, Mrs. Linklater in her infinite wisdom, has created a new video game called, "SO YOU WANT TO HAVE A BABY."
Just slide the DVD into the player and follow the instructions:
First attach the YES AND NO sensors to the inside of your knees. You will be given a series of questions to answer. If your answer is YES, spread your knees far apart. If your answer is NO, close your knees tightly together. You will receive a score for each right answer and be docked for each incorrect answer. At the end of the game the player with the highest score gets to have a life.
Let's begin. . .
1. Do you think you're old enough to have a baby? NOTE: If you still sleep with stuffed animals, answer NO.
2. Have you ever had sex? If you answered YES and you are under 14, stop playing the game and ground yourself for the next three years.
3. If a boy said he loved you would you believe him? If you answered NO, score 50 points. If you answered YES, lie down with your legs in the air for the rest of the game.
4. Which is more important -- doing your homework or having a boyfriend? Oh, wait that's not a yes or no question. Okay, if you think the answer is homework, give yourself 400 points. If you think having a boyfriend is more important than doing your homework, then don't come crying to your mother when he asks you to get a Brazilian. Assuming you're old enough to need one. In which case, subtract 700 points.
Mrs. Linklater will be back to post more of this exciting new game as soon as she can think up some more questions. Feel free to contribute some of your own.
On the other hand, if Baby Sister Spears were living on a desert island without the encumbrances of the moral majority, a voracious media, a stupid mother, a bipolar sister, a children's network contract, and a boatload of money, her pregnancy would be a non issue. If a tree falls in the forest does it make a sound? If a sixteen year old pregnant girl lives alone on a desert island, is there a story?
Not until it's time to deliver the baby. Given her body's lack of maturity and her small size, chances are little Miss Spears would have a difficult labor. At a top tier medical center hers might even be considered a high risk pregnancy. But out there on the desert island there ain't no neo natal types hanging out under the palm trees. Nope, she's going to have nothing to help her and the baby get through the birth but sand and coconuts. Okay, the father of her spawn can be there. Like that helps.
Chances are very high that Jamie or the baby, or both Jamie and the baby, would die in childbirth. It's her first baby, she's very young, her body is immature. Yep, death is an option. So are cerebral palsy, skull fractures, dislocated limbs, and many other possibilities.
I think we forget that the greatest threat to a woman or baby's life, before the world had antibiotics, emergency c-sections, and more monitors than a NASA space flight, was surviving childbirth.
Nowadays women don't expect to die while having a baby. Ah, but there are so many other ways for babies to put an end to your life as you knew it without having to kill you.
So to help young girls understand that babies are not dolls you can put away in the closet when you're tired of playing with them, Mrs. Linklater in her infinite wisdom, has created a new video game called, "SO YOU WANT TO HAVE A BABY."
Just slide the DVD into the player and follow the instructions:
First attach the YES AND NO sensors to the inside of your knees. You will be given a series of questions to answer. If your answer is YES, spread your knees far apart. If your answer is NO, close your knees tightly together. You will receive a score for each right answer and be docked for each incorrect answer. At the end of the game the player with the highest score gets to have a life.
Let's begin. . .
1. Do you think you're old enough to have a baby? NOTE: If you still sleep with stuffed animals, answer NO.
2. Have you ever had sex? If you answered YES and you are under 14, stop playing the game and ground yourself for the next three years.
3. If a boy said he loved you would you believe him? If you answered NO, score 50 points. If you answered YES, lie down with your legs in the air for the rest of the game.
4. Which is more important -- doing your homework or having a boyfriend? Oh, wait that's not a yes or no question. Okay, if you think the answer is homework, give yourself 400 points. If you think having a boyfriend is more important than doing your homework, then don't come crying to your mother when he asks you to get a Brazilian. Assuming you're old enough to need one. In which case, subtract 700 points.
Mrs. Linklater will be back to post more of this exciting new game as soon as she can think up some more questions. Feel free to contribute some of your own.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Generation Crap
I have to vent. I know some people who think they're cutting edge producers of TV shows and movies as well as musical geniuses. I've worked with them. They aren't. They throw around esoteric references to directors and bands as if to prove they have their fingers on the pulse of what's hot and what's not. They don't.
Their knowledge of movies stops with Pulp Fiction. Their musical tastes embrace hip hop and alternative groups. They wouldn't know the difference between a Bach fugue and seventies funk. They couldn't edit a trailer or create a marketing plan for lunch. I know, I've seen and heard their best efforts.
The problem is that most of them are in their twenties and male. I'm in my sixties and female. You know where this is going. So I just stay the hell away from them as much as possible.
Recently, in a goodwill gesture, if nothing else, I offered to buy copies of a CD they were marketing for little kids. I always felt that they'd taken an idea I'd mentioned to one of them in passing and just kept it for themselves. Can't complain. I shouldn't have said anything. Plus I didn't say DIBS.
As I understood their version of the project, they took some familiar tunes we all learn in childhood and supposedly auditioned a bunch of different music houses to create some new arrangements. Updating the old and making it new. Simple enough idea. Not very fresh, but sometimes simple is better. I know what I had wanted to do with those tunes -- something more sophisticated and fun than what it sounded like they were doing. But I put my idea on hold when I heard their plans. Now I was curious to see what they had come up with.
Yesterday I picked up four of their CD's. They didn't charge me which I thought was nice. On reflection there may be a reason for that. The CD cover has bright, cutesy graphics on the front and back. colorful and targeted to little kids. Based on the art, I thought, at the very least, my young nieces and nephews would enjoy listening to these old favorites when they were strapped to their carseats, riding in the van. Their moms and dads could take a trip down memory lane and sing along with them.
Until I listened to the first cut. It was a train wreck. I was playing the most gawdawful noise I'd ever heard. Sesame Street meets Slash. A heavy metal perversion of one of the world's favorite childhood melodies, entirely devoid of the familiar tune, with a vocal that was nothing but screeching. Metallica sounds like madrigals by comparison. Earth to grunge boys -- you want Mom and Dad to have family sing a longs to THIS?
I quickly skipped to the next cut. Ack. Even worse. The same kind of cacophony. I could hear the "singers" screaming the words we all know, but that's where the resemblance to anything musical ended. The experience reminded me of the commercial where the sales person is asking a mom and dad what kind of music their kid likes. "Putrid trash." "Atonal garbage." It's like being sucker punched." "It's like paper cuts on your eardrums."
One "song" after another. Each was worse than the last. It was the kind of noise that would drive a parent or grandparent insane. Especially when you've got a toddler that loves to hear the same tune [and I use that term loosely] over and over and over. Assuming the sound didn't scare the poop out of junior and make him want to cry instead.
I think there were eight or ten cuts. Only one bore any relation to the original tune, thanks to the lone female voice on the whole CD. She could actually sing. And just this one time, the arrangement wasn't heavy metal, it was something kinder and gentler.
Did these hip and happening guys not understand that the last thing a parent wants in a music CD for their kids is something only 18 to 24 year old males eating pizza and smoking dope can enjoy?
So I called my music guy to say all bets are off. I played nice with those assheads. I can't wait to let him hear this unadulterated crap. We can have a few laughs at their expense. And then do it our way.
Their knowledge of movies stops with Pulp Fiction. Their musical tastes embrace hip hop and alternative groups. They wouldn't know the difference between a Bach fugue and seventies funk. They couldn't edit a trailer or create a marketing plan for lunch. I know, I've seen and heard their best efforts.
The problem is that most of them are in their twenties and male. I'm in my sixties and female. You know where this is going. So I just stay the hell away from them as much as possible.
Recently, in a goodwill gesture, if nothing else, I offered to buy copies of a CD they were marketing for little kids. I always felt that they'd taken an idea I'd mentioned to one of them in passing and just kept it for themselves. Can't complain. I shouldn't have said anything. Plus I didn't say DIBS.
As I understood their version of the project, they took some familiar tunes we all learn in childhood and supposedly auditioned a bunch of different music houses to create some new arrangements. Updating the old and making it new. Simple enough idea. Not very fresh, but sometimes simple is better. I know what I had wanted to do with those tunes -- something more sophisticated and fun than what it sounded like they were doing. But I put my idea on hold when I heard their plans. Now I was curious to see what they had come up with.
Yesterday I picked up four of their CD's. They didn't charge me which I thought was nice. On reflection there may be a reason for that. The CD cover has bright, cutesy graphics on the front and back. colorful and targeted to little kids. Based on the art, I thought, at the very least, my young nieces and nephews would enjoy listening to these old favorites when they were strapped to their carseats, riding in the van. Their moms and dads could take a trip down memory lane and sing along with them.
Until I listened to the first cut. It was a train wreck. I was playing the most gawdawful noise I'd ever heard. Sesame Street meets Slash. A heavy metal perversion of one of the world's favorite childhood melodies, entirely devoid of the familiar tune, with a vocal that was nothing but screeching. Metallica sounds like madrigals by comparison. Earth to grunge boys -- you want Mom and Dad to have family sing a longs to THIS?
I quickly skipped to the next cut. Ack. Even worse. The same kind of cacophony. I could hear the "singers" screaming the words we all know, but that's where the resemblance to anything musical ended. The experience reminded me of the commercial where the sales person is asking a mom and dad what kind of music their kid likes. "Putrid trash." "Atonal garbage." It's like being sucker punched." "It's like paper cuts on your eardrums."
One "song" after another. Each was worse than the last. It was the kind of noise that would drive a parent or grandparent insane. Especially when you've got a toddler that loves to hear the same tune [and I use that term loosely] over and over and over. Assuming the sound didn't scare the poop out of junior and make him want to cry instead.
I think there were eight or ten cuts. Only one bore any relation to the original tune, thanks to the lone female voice on the whole CD. She could actually sing. And just this one time, the arrangement wasn't heavy metal, it was something kinder and gentler.
Did these hip and happening guys not understand that the last thing a parent wants in a music CD for their kids is something only 18 to 24 year old males eating pizza and smoking dope can enjoy?
So I called my music guy to say all bets are off. I played nice with those assheads. I can't wait to let him hear this unadulterated crap. We can have a few laughs at their expense. And then do it our way.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Tased Any Cougars Lately?
Here, in no particular order is a bunch of the winning words of the year, as determined by the folks who bring you the Oxford English Dictionary and Webster's. Since first posting the list, Mrs. Linklater has added some helpful comments of her own to clarify each definition. You're welcome.
Ignore things that look like links. They don't work.
2007 - Oxford Winner
“Locavore” was coined two years ago by a group of four women in San Francisco who proposed that local residents should try to eat only food grown or produced within a 100-mile radius. Other regional movements have emerged since then, though some groups refer to themselves as “localvores” rather than “locavores.” However it’s spelled, it’s a word to watch.
[Not to worry, no one outside of Berkeley CA will ever use this stupid word correctly in a sentence]
Runners-up for the Oxford 2007 Word [or phrase] of the Year include:
aging in place: the process of growing older while living in one’s own residence, instead of having to move to a new home or community.
[Not to be confused with the process of aging in front of the television because you can't get out of your chair]
bacn: email notifications, such as news alerts and social networking updates, that are considered more desirable than unwanted “spam” (coined at PodCamp Pittsburgh in Aug. 2007 and popularized in the blogging community)
[Egg McNuthins are forwarded jokes from people who never send you anything else]
cloudware: online applications, such as webmail, powered by massive data storage facilities, also called “cloud servers.”
[Cloudgate on the other hand is the polished chrome dome scultpture that all Chicagoans call "The Bean"]
colony collapse disorder: a still-unexplained phenomenon resulting in the widespread disappearance of honeybees from beehives, first observed in late 2006
[Also refers to the unexplained phenomenon in the Malibu Colony where the widespread use of Viagra causes the disappearance of -- nevermind]
cougar: an older woman who romantically pursues younger men
["Romantically?" What's love got to do with it?]
MRAP vehicle: Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle, designed to protect troops from improvised explosive devices (IEDs)
[A step up from the Mostly Retarded Army Protected Humvees]
mumblecore an independent film movement featuring low-budget production, non-professional actors, and largely improvised dialogue
[I always thought this was porn]
previvor: a person who has not been diagnosed with a form of cancer but has survived a genetic predisposition for cancer
[So you can still get the big "C", but w00t!! you survived the first bullet in the chamber]
social graph: the network of one’s friends and connections on social websites such as Facebook and Myspace
[Paragraphs, capitalization, complete sentences, and grammar are not included]
tase (or taze): to stun with a Taser (popularized by a Sep. 2007 incident in which a University of Florida student was filmed being stunned by a Taser at a public forum)
[Mase (or Maze) is when you get mugged with a taser]
upcycling: the transformation of waste materials into something more useful or valuable
[Downcycling is what happens when you try to make a garden statue out of horse manure and end up throwing it away]
WEBSTER'S 2007 TOP TEN LIST
WINNER: w00t (interjection)
expressing joy (it could be after a triumph, or for no reason at all); similar in use to the word "yay" -- w00t! I won the contest!
[W3ll, I r3ally think c0mbining l3tt3rs and numb3rs is a pr3tty st00pid id3a]
GOVERNATOR
n. Robotic politician with an Austrian accent
Ignore things that look like links. They don't work.
2007 - Oxford Winner
“Locavore” was coined two years ago by a group of four women in San Francisco who proposed that local residents should try to eat only food grown or produced within a 100-mile radius. Other regional movements have emerged since then, though some groups refer to themselves as “localvores” rather than “locavores.” However it’s spelled, it’s a word to watch.
[Not to worry, no one outside of Berkeley CA will ever use this stupid word correctly in a sentence]
Runners-up for the Oxford 2007 Word [or phrase] of the Year include:
aging in place: the process of growing older while living in one’s own residence, instead of having to move to a new home or community.
[Not to be confused with the process of aging in front of the television because you can't get out of your chair]
bacn: email notifications, such as news alerts and social networking updates, that are considered more desirable than unwanted “spam” (coined at PodCamp Pittsburgh in Aug. 2007 and popularized in the blogging community)
[Egg McNuthins are forwarded jokes from people who never send you anything else]
cloudware: online applications, such as webmail, powered by massive data storage facilities, also called “cloud servers.”
[Cloudgate on the other hand is the polished chrome dome scultpture that all Chicagoans call "The Bean"]
colony collapse disorder: a still-unexplained phenomenon resulting in the widespread disappearance of honeybees from beehives, first observed in late 2006
[Also refers to the unexplained phenomenon in the Malibu Colony where the widespread use of Viagra causes the disappearance of -- nevermind]
cougar: an older woman who romantically pursues younger men
["Romantically?" What's love got to do with it?]
MRAP vehicle: Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle, designed to protect troops from improvised explosive devices (IEDs)
[A step up from the Mostly Retarded Army Protected Humvees]
mumblecore an independent film movement featuring low-budget production, non-professional actors, and largely improvised dialogue
[I always thought this was porn]
previvor: a person who has not been diagnosed with a form of cancer but has survived a genetic predisposition for cancer
[So you can still get the big "C", but w00t!! you survived the first bullet in the chamber]
social graph: the network of one’s friends and connections on social websites such as Facebook and Myspace
[Paragraphs, capitalization, complete sentences, and grammar are not included]
tase (or taze): to stun with a Taser (popularized by a Sep. 2007 incident in which a University of Florida student was filmed being stunned by a Taser at a public forum)
[Mase (or Maze) is when you get mugged with a taser]
upcycling: the transformation of waste materials into something more useful or valuable
[Downcycling is what happens when you try to make a garden statue out of horse manure and end up throwing it away]
WEBSTER'S 2007 TOP TEN LIST
WINNER: w00t (interjection)
expressing joy (it could be after a triumph, or for no reason at all); similar in use to the word "yay" -- w00t! I won the contest!
[W3ll, I r3ally think c0mbining l3tt3rs and numb3rs is a pr3tty st00pid id3a]
1. facebook
2. conundrum
3. quixotic
4. blamestorm
5. srdoodledom
6. apathetic
7. Pecksniffian
8. hypocrite
9. charlatan
There's a word missing from these lists. It's the one word I think should have been included in somebody's top ten at some point. Here it is:
GOVERNATOR
n. Robotic politician with an Austrian accent
Monday, December 17, 2007
Not Your Average Union Strikers
I have a cousin who is one of those striking Hollywood writers. You have to admire people who party all night and eat sushi for lunch, then march in the daylight for an eight-cent pay raise.
I'll Just Sit Here Alone In The Dark
Last night I saw ATONEMENT, or the eleventy-first costume drama starring Keira Knightley in the only role she ever plays -- upper class, petulant British lass with no discernible breasts.
Unfortunately, I was not prepared for an unexpected ending which left me emotionally drained. Not that I become so involved with the characters that they seem real to me. Or anything.
But the plot was just tricky enough to cause whiplash when I was jerked out of my happy ending comfort zone and sucker punched with the story's truth. It should have come with a warning. Caution: The ending of this movie may not be suitable for more sensitive viewers who need to get a life.
I walked out of the theater feeling pretty melancholy. Until I saw that Raisinets were half price.
This morning I got the other half of a double whammy. First ATONEMENT, then Dan Fogelberg goes and dies from prostate cancer at only 56. His songs have been getting airplay all day and reminding me of yet another freaking old boyfriend. He was a young 28 when I met him. He's gotta be fifty something now. What is going on? It's Christmas and the ghosts of my past life have nothing better to do but haunt me?
I used to think Dan Fogelberg's songs were a little too sentimental, but now I think he tells musical stories almost as well as Harry Chapin. Even without the electric cello.
Same Old Lang Syne was chosen as Fogelberg's anthem for today. The holiday lyrics and all. I had a similar experience running into a past life at my local Barnes and Noble a few years ago.
But the words from Longer are the ones that can still make me blubber like a baby in the car.
Okay, cue the band. . .gimme the Mr. Microphone.
1. Same Old Lang Syne
(Dan Fogelberg)
Met my old lover in the grocery store,
The snow was falling Christmas Eve.
I stole behind her in the frozen foods,
And I touchedher on the sleeve.
She didn't recognize the face at first,
But then her eyes flew open wide.
She went to hug me and she spilled her purse,
And we laughed until we cried.
We took her groceries to the checkout stand,
The food was totaled up and bagged.
We stood there lost in our embarrassment,
As the conversation dragged.
We went to have ourselves a drink or two,
But couldn't find an open bar.
We bought a six-pack at the liquor store,
And we drank it in her car.
We drank a toast to innocence,
We drank a toast to now.
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness,
But neither one knew how.
She said she'd married her an architect,
Who kept her warm and safe and dry,
She would have liked to say she loved the man,
But she didn't like to lie.
I said the years had been a friend to her,
And that her eyes were still as blue.
But in those eyes I wasn't sure if I saw,
Doubt or gratitude.
She said she saw me in the record stores,
And that I must be doing well.
I said the audience was heavenly,
But the traveling was hell.
We drank a toast to innocence,
We drank a toast to now.
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness,
But neither one knew how.
We drank a toast to innocence,
We drank a toast to time.
Reliving in our eloquence,
Another 'auld lang syne'......
The beer was empty and our tongues were tired,
And running out of things to say.
She gave a kiss to me as I got out,
And I watched her drive away.
Just for a moment I was back at school,
And felt that old familiar pain
And as I turned to make my way back home,
The snow turned into rain. . .
2. Longer
Unfortunately, I was not prepared for an unexpected ending which left me emotionally drained. Not that I become so involved with the characters that they seem real to me. Or anything.
But the plot was just tricky enough to cause whiplash when I was jerked out of my happy ending comfort zone and sucker punched with the story's truth. It should have come with a warning. Caution: The ending of this movie may not be suitable for more sensitive viewers who need to get a life.
I walked out of the theater feeling pretty melancholy. Until I saw that Raisinets were half price.
This morning I got the other half of a double whammy. First ATONEMENT, then Dan Fogelberg goes and dies from prostate cancer at only 56. His songs have been getting airplay all day and reminding me of yet another freaking old boyfriend. He was a young 28 when I met him. He's gotta be fifty something now. What is going on? It's Christmas and the ghosts of my past life have nothing better to do but haunt me?
I used to think Dan Fogelberg's songs were a little too sentimental, but now I think he tells musical stories almost as well as Harry Chapin. Even without the electric cello.
Same Old Lang Syne was chosen as Fogelberg's anthem for today. The holiday lyrics and all. I had a similar experience running into a past life at my local Barnes and Noble a few years ago.
But the words from Longer are the ones that can still make me blubber like a baby in the car.
Okay, cue the band. . .gimme the Mr. Microphone.
1. Same Old Lang Syne
(Dan Fogelberg)
Met my old lover in the grocery store,
The snow was falling Christmas Eve.
I stole behind her in the frozen foods,
And I touchedher on the sleeve.
She didn't recognize the face at first,
But then her eyes flew open wide.
She went to hug me and she spilled her purse,
And we laughed until we cried.
We took her groceries to the checkout stand,
The food was totaled up and bagged.
We stood there lost in our embarrassment,
As the conversation dragged.
We went to have ourselves a drink or two,
But couldn't find an open bar.
We bought a six-pack at the liquor store,
And we drank it in her car.
We drank a toast to innocence,
We drank a toast to now.
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness,
But neither one knew how.
She said she'd married her an architect,
Who kept her warm and safe and dry,
She would have liked to say she loved the man,
But she didn't like to lie.
I said the years had been a friend to her,
And that her eyes were still as blue.
But in those eyes I wasn't sure if I saw,
Doubt or gratitude.
She said she saw me in the record stores,
And that I must be doing well.
I said the audience was heavenly,
But the traveling was hell.
We drank a toast to innocence,
We drank a toast to now.
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness,
But neither one knew how.
We drank a toast to innocence,
We drank a toast to time.
Reliving in our eloquence,
Another 'auld lang syne'......
The beer was empty and our tongues were tired,
And running out of things to say.
She gave a kiss to me as I got out,
And I watched her drive away.
Just for a moment I was back at school,
And felt that old familiar pain
And as I turned to make my way back home,
The snow turned into rain. . .
2. Longer
Longer than there've been fishes
in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars
up in the heavens
I've been in love with you.
Stronger than any mountain cathedral
Truer than any tree ever grew
Deeper than any forest primeval
I am in love with you.
I'll bring fires in the winters
You'll send showers in the springs
We'll fly through the falls and summers
With love on our wings.
Through the years as the fire
starts to mellow
Burning lines in the book of our lives
Though the binding cracks and the
pages start to yellow
I'll be in love with you.
Longer than there've been fishes
in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars
up in the heavens
I've been in love with you
I am in love with you..
in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars
up in the heavens
I've been in love with you.
Stronger than any mountain cathedral
Truer than any tree ever grew
Deeper than any forest primeval
I am in love with you.
I'll bring fires in the winters
You'll send showers in the springs
We'll fly through the falls and summers
With love on our wings.
Through the years as the fire
starts to mellow
Burning lines in the book of our lives
Though the binding cracks and the
pages start to yellow
I'll be in love with you.
Longer than there've been fishes
in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars
up in the heavens
I've been in love with you
I am in love with you..
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Survival Tactics
I had a dream last night that I was writing an entry in my journal. I remember having four great topics to blog about, which is about four more than I've had lately. That's how I know it was a dream.
In what passes for my real life, I was in the city over the weekend for a couple of parties. When I arrived at the first one, ready to consume my half of the buffet table, the weather alarmists were already predicting twelve hours worth of snow. So I decided not to stay too long at the first party in order to have enough time to eat my fill at the second. That way I could still get home before my storm doors became frozen shut -- again.
On the way home after the second party, I noticed I only had a quarter tank of gas. Ah, yes I thought, tonight is the night that I will become the poster child for what happens when you leave home without a full tank.
Tragically Mrs. Linklater ran out of gas at the entrance to her driveway. It may not seem like a long distance to some, but the last twenty feet can be the hardest when you're used to valet parking.
If I ran out of gas, I was SFB -- sh*t for brains. Oh sure, I had my cell phone with me, but it doesn't have a GPS chip, so no one would know where I was until the garbage guys showed up on Tuesday.
The one time I didn't have a pile of polar fleece, Sorel boots, and an expedition parka in the back is the one time I would need them. I would be found huddled in the fetal position, trying to keep warm with two jars of Nutella and some Pepperidge Farm cookies.
Nah.I'd make a run for the house.
Mrs. Linklater's frost covered body -- wearing a surprisingly nice [for her] shiny black leather-made-to-look-like-snakeskin jacket, enhanced with a decorative scarf she was going to give as a gift but decided to keep for herself -- was found with one of her bare hands wrapped around the handle of her storm door, the other with a can of WD40. In a final desperate act, Mrs. Linklater seems to have planted her left foot against the house as if she were trying to force the door to open by pulling on the handle and pushing against the bricks. Sadly, her gold-tasseled party shoes were no match for the frozen back door. The officers who arrived for her weekly wellness check had no comment.
Traffic was so bumper to bumper on the highway driving home that I actually called 911 to complain. I had already passed a Mini Cooper that had been there so long the snow was almost fender high from the snowplows going around it. Sitting like a statue waiting for pigeons, the forlorn little thing looked like someone had driven it to the middle lane of the expressway and just parked it.
There was a traffic stop, too. At least it looked like a traffic stop. Two cop cars with their lights flashing. A guy sitting in his car, engine running, on the side of the road. Pulled over for what? Speeding? Just going 35 felt like Indy. I saw one cop mouth to the other cop, "He's okay." Maybe the guy was feeling too drunk to deal with the slipping and sliding and pulled over. That might be a first in Chicago.
Mrs. Linklater only had a quarter tank of gas and nothing to keep her warm if she she ran out, but she was in her trusty Jeep, wearing brand new Wranglers with FRESH TREADS, so she was gripping snow like, um, a metaphor that wouldn't be appropriate here. Let's just say her car was hanging onto the road like it was wearing crampons. Which is probably why she really wasn't worried about running out of gas without any warm gear in the car. And she got home just fine thank you.
Na na na na na.
In what passes for my real life, I was in the city over the weekend for a couple of parties. When I arrived at the first one, ready to consume my half of the buffet table, the weather alarmists were already predicting twelve hours worth of snow. So I decided not to stay too long at the first party in order to have enough time to eat my fill at the second. That way I could still get home before my storm doors became frozen shut -- again.
On the way home after the second party, I noticed I only had a quarter tank of gas. Ah, yes I thought, tonight is the night that I will become the poster child for what happens when you leave home without a full tank.
Tragically Mrs. Linklater ran out of gas at the entrance to her driveway. It may not seem like a long distance to some, but the last twenty feet can be the hardest when you're used to valet parking.
If I ran out of gas, I was SFB -- sh*t for brains. Oh sure, I had my cell phone with me, but it doesn't have a GPS chip, so no one would know where I was until the garbage guys showed up on Tuesday.
The one time I didn't have a pile of polar fleece, Sorel boots, and an expedition parka in the back is the one time I would need them. I would be found huddled in the fetal position, trying to keep warm with two jars of Nutella and some Pepperidge Farm cookies.
Nah.I'd make a run for the house.
Mrs. Linklater's frost covered body -- wearing a surprisingly nice [for her] shiny black leather-made-to-look-like-snakeskin jacket, enhanced with a decorative scarf she was going to give as a gift but decided to keep for herself -- was found with one of her bare hands wrapped around the handle of her storm door, the other with a can of WD40. In a final desperate act, Mrs. Linklater seems to have planted her left foot against the house as if she were trying to force the door to open by pulling on the handle and pushing against the bricks. Sadly, her gold-tasseled party shoes were no match for the frozen back door. The officers who arrived for her weekly wellness check had no comment.
Traffic was so bumper to bumper on the highway driving home that I actually called 911 to complain. I had already passed a Mini Cooper that had been there so long the snow was almost fender high from the snowplows going around it. Sitting like a statue waiting for pigeons, the forlorn little thing looked like someone had driven it to the middle lane of the expressway and just parked it.
There was a traffic stop, too. At least it looked like a traffic stop. Two cop cars with their lights flashing. A guy sitting in his car, engine running, on the side of the road. Pulled over for what? Speeding? Just going 35 felt like Indy. I saw one cop mouth to the other cop, "He's okay." Maybe the guy was feeling too drunk to deal with the slipping and sliding and pulled over. That might be a first in Chicago.
Mrs. Linklater only had a quarter tank of gas and nothing to keep her warm if she she ran out, but she was in her trusty Jeep, wearing brand new Wranglers with FRESH TREADS, so she was gripping snow like, um, a metaphor that wouldn't be appropriate here. Let's just say her car was hanging onto the road like it was wearing crampons. Which is probably why she really wasn't worried about running out of gas without any warm gear in the car. And she got home just fine thank you.
Na na na na na.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Dressing for the Holidays
Today I was watching a segment on a morning show about how a woman can hide her flaws fashionably. Whatever happened to putting a bag over your head? Okay, not helpful. For years the Peterman catalog has offered any number of flowing caftans bartered from Mongolian sheepherders for just this purpose. "On the Calimari Plains of Babaganoosk near remote Oodlesk, we discovered these artful tent-like weavings which the members of the Moogli tribe use to hide their fat cows."
Personally I'm partial to a dramatic, large scarf. Something the size of Maine works best for me.
As the models on the show came out one at a time, I realized the fashion editor wasn't talking about hiding real flaws like a missing limb or burn scars, she was referring to IMAGINARY flaws -- the ones that only twenty something females can see after staring in the mirror at themselves for two hours.
The first outfit was supposed to diminish the view of unappealing upper arms. This was accomplished with a baby doll sleeve that hit the flawed appendage at its thinnest point. It must have worked because the model's arms looked like sticks. Anything resembling a hideous, fleshy body part was not discernible to my eye.
This same model apparently had thunderous thighs to go with her grotesque arms. So the dress had a hemline that hit her leg above the knee, but below that blobby fat part of her thigh, which must have been disgusting before they dressed her properly. Not a bulge in sight. She also wore black tights to create the illusion of having slim, athletic legs. Tights can do that? Who knew? They also put her in knee-high boots with four inch heels, because supposedly the right boots can hide everything from bunions to fat ankles. Something about how your eye is drawn away from your flaws to the buffet table.
The next model came out with her shoulders exposed. Shoulders are the new cleavage. If you don't have any cleavage, just show a hunk of shoulder and nobody will know the difference. Oh great, after all these years I finally have a butt crack's worth of cleavage and now they want shoulders. Sure -- right after my dermatologist finishes removing all the pre cancerous spots caused by the excesses of youthful sunbathing.
I'm waiting for an outfit that lifts up your holiday-food-filled stomach so it fits into your bra. And disguises your fat ass as a game table with chairs.
Meanwhile, they should put up a disclaimer before doing these fashion makeover things. WARNING: This segment is not suitable for women who prefer elastic waistbands and shop at Chico's.
Not me, of course. Eddie Bauer is more my style.
Personally I'm partial to a dramatic, large scarf. Something the size of Maine works best for me.
As the models on the show came out one at a time, I realized the fashion editor wasn't talking about hiding real flaws like a missing limb or burn scars, she was referring to IMAGINARY flaws -- the ones that only twenty something females can see after staring in the mirror at themselves for two hours.
The first outfit was supposed to diminish the view of unappealing upper arms. This was accomplished with a baby doll sleeve that hit the flawed appendage at its thinnest point. It must have worked because the model's arms looked like sticks. Anything resembling a hideous, fleshy body part was not discernible to my eye.
This same model apparently had thunderous thighs to go with her grotesque arms. So the dress had a hemline that hit her leg above the knee, but below that blobby fat part of her thigh, which must have been disgusting before they dressed her properly. Not a bulge in sight. She also wore black tights to create the illusion of having slim, athletic legs. Tights can do that? Who knew? They also put her in knee-high boots with four inch heels, because supposedly the right boots can hide everything from bunions to fat ankles. Something about how your eye is drawn away from your flaws to the buffet table.
The next model came out with her shoulders exposed. Shoulders are the new cleavage. If you don't have any cleavage, just show a hunk of shoulder and nobody will know the difference. Oh great, after all these years I finally have a butt crack's worth of cleavage and now they want shoulders. Sure -- right after my dermatologist finishes removing all the pre cancerous spots caused by the excesses of youthful sunbathing.
I'm waiting for an outfit that lifts up your holiday-food-filled stomach so it fits into your bra. And disguises your fat ass as a game table with chairs.
Meanwhile, they should put up a disclaimer before doing these fashion makeover things. WARNING: This segment is not suitable for women who prefer elastic waistbands and shop at Chico's.
Not me, of course. Eddie Bauer is more my style.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
What Goes Around Comes Around Again
Sometimes events conspire to remind me of an old memory I thought I'd forgotten. If you'd asked me yesterday morning whether I'd ever had a good blind date I would have said, "No." But last night, sitting with friends in a hired car at the foot of the Adler Planetarium to view the city lights, I remembered J. K.
During the early years of Viet Nam, my former college roommate and her husband were stationed at Rantoul Air Force base in southern Illinois. Rantoul was far enough away from Chicago to be a road trip. Occasionally I would drive down there in my beloved Mustang, the car that was an exhilarating gift of freedom, literally and figuratively -- my ticket to ride around the country that I punched early and often. I might not be able to afford the plane fare somewhere, but I could always gas up the the bronze helmet and drive there. Gas was twenty something cents a gallon. And my car got 24 MPG. Thirty on the open road. You do the math.
Since Rantoul and hairy armpit were nearly synonymous, from time to time my friends would come up to Chicago with another Air Force couple they met from New York for a weekend of R and R.
One weekend the New Yorkers told me they had a friend from college who had just moved to Chicago. Would I like to meet him? Saying yes was easy. I was young enough that optimism could still trump experience.
Funny what you remember of a first meeting. J.K. had a simple silver pinky ring made from hammering a dime into a circular band. As small as it was, I noticed it right away and asked him about it. I generally didn't like guys who wore pinky rings. But clearly he didn't fit into any of my pinky ring stereotypes -- greasy mobster, ethnic lothario, uptight eastern prep school swell, or gay hairdresser.
He looked like a poster boy for the All American Surfer -- blond, blue-eyed, square jawed and athletic. His smile was blinding. His personality was outgoing and fun. Okay, I liked what I was looking at. Did he like what he was looking at? I watched for signs of rejection -- talking to the married folks to avoid me. Heading for the bar to get a drink and staying there. Pretending to listen, but looking around.
I soon realized we were both laughing and smiling at each other like a couple of goofs.
Somewhere the marrieds left us to our own devices. I don't remember where they went, but they were gone. I also don't remember much dancing or drinking. What I do remember is talking. We closed one place and walked somewhere else. At four in the morning when everything shut down, we walked to a 24 hour cafe and had breakfast, still talking. I suggested that we get my car and drive over to the Planetarium so we could watch the sunrise over the lake. Anything to delay the end of the evening, which was now turning to dawn.
For you horndogs wondering why we didn't just go back to his place or my place and have our ways with each other, J K. lived several miles away and I had a roommate. Even worse, my roommate and I shared a space-saving bunkbed, since our one bedroom apartment had very little room.
Back in those days, as heady with dope smoke as they were, while some people had random sex with partners whose last names they didn't know, some of us, me, still debated whether or not to kiss on a first date, no matter how long the evening lasted.
I did not want it to end. So I worked hard to sell J. K. on the idea of watching the sun rise over the lake, like we were going to the World's Fair. I described in detail how the sun would start to peak over the horizon, eventually spreading its flaming orange and yellow colors across the lake, making the water look like it was on fire. We got to the Planetarium in plenty of time for the big event. Waiting for the show to start, we even got a good look at the skyline behind us, where out of town reporters often position themselves to prove they're in Chicago.
Meanwhile, we continued our talkathon. Ultimately the sunrise would become mere backdrop for the start of something else. The sky became lighter and lighter but there was still no sun. At seven o'clock I finally realized the sun was a no show. The sky I thought we were watching was completely obliterated by gray clouds. We looked at each other, laughed and left.
After parking my car back at the garage, I walked with J.K. back to my apartment. Saying goodbye took at least another hour. He sat down on the stairs in the hallway outside my front door, leaning back on an elbow, while we actually had a discussion about whether or not to perform the ritual of the goodnight liplock, an event already rendered moot by the amount of daylight.
I honestly don't remember what we did. Kiss or not kiss. I do remember having a hot two years with J.K. that didn't have to end, but like so many choices I have made, slowly ground to a halt.
Last night, some forty years later, there I was again out on the Planetarium promenade. This time, interestingly, with the daughter and son-in-law of one of the couples who used to drive up from Rantoul. We had driven out there, hoping to provide a visiting cousin of theirs with a view of the city, not unlike the one I had once promised to J.K.
Somehow it seems fitting that the glorious view of Chicago we came to see was completely obscurred by darkened car windows, icy rain, and fog. We all looked at each other, laughed and left.
The circle never ends.
During the early years of Viet Nam, my former college roommate and her husband were stationed at Rantoul Air Force base in southern Illinois. Rantoul was far enough away from Chicago to be a road trip. Occasionally I would drive down there in my beloved Mustang, the car that was an exhilarating gift of freedom, literally and figuratively -- my ticket to ride around the country that I punched early and often. I might not be able to afford the plane fare somewhere, but I could always gas up the the bronze helmet and drive there. Gas was twenty something cents a gallon. And my car got 24 MPG. Thirty on the open road. You do the math.
Since Rantoul and hairy armpit were nearly synonymous, from time to time my friends would come up to Chicago with another Air Force couple they met from New York for a weekend of R and R.
One weekend the New Yorkers told me they had a friend from college who had just moved to Chicago. Would I like to meet him? Saying yes was easy. I was young enough that optimism could still trump experience.
Funny what you remember of a first meeting. J.K. had a simple silver pinky ring made from hammering a dime into a circular band. As small as it was, I noticed it right away and asked him about it. I generally didn't like guys who wore pinky rings. But clearly he didn't fit into any of my pinky ring stereotypes -- greasy mobster, ethnic lothario, uptight eastern prep school swell, or gay hairdresser.
He looked like a poster boy for the All American Surfer -- blond, blue-eyed, square jawed and athletic. His smile was blinding. His personality was outgoing and fun. Okay, I liked what I was looking at. Did he like what he was looking at? I watched for signs of rejection -- talking to the married folks to avoid me. Heading for the bar to get a drink and staying there. Pretending to listen, but looking around.
I soon realized we were both laughing and smiling at each other like a couple of goofs.
Somewhere the marrieds left us to our own devices. I don't remember where they went, but they were gone. I also don't remember much dancing or drinking. What I do remember is talking. We closed one place and walked somewhere else. At four in the morning when everything shut down, we walked to a 24 hour cafe and had breakfast, still talking. I suggested that we get my car and drive over to the Planetarium so we could watch the sunrise over the lake. Anything to delay the end of the evening, which was now turning to dawn.
For you horndogs wondering why we didn't just go back to his place or my place and have our ways with each other, J K. lived several miles away and I had a roommate. Even worse, my roommate and I shared a space-saving bunkbed, since our one bedroom apartment had very little room.
Back in those days, as heady with dope smoke as they were, while some people had random sex with partners whose last names they didn't know, some of us, me, still debated whether or not to kiss on a first date, no matter how long the evening lasted.
I did not want it to end. So I worked hard to sell J. K. on the idea of watching the sun rise over the lake, like we were going to the World's Fair. I described in detail how the sun would start to peak over the horizon, eventually spreading its flaming orange and yellow colors across the lake, making the water look like it was on fire. We got to the Planetarium in plenty of time for the big event. Waiting for the show to start, we even got a good look at the skyline behind us, where out of town reporters often position themselves to prove they're in Chicago.
Meanwhile, we continued our talkathon. Ultimately the sunrise would become mere backdrop for the start of something else. The sky became lighter and lighter but there was still no sun. At seven o'clock I finally realized the sun was a no show. The sky I thought we were watching was completely obliterated by gray clouds. We looked at each other, laughed and left.
After parking my car back at the garage, I walked with J.K. back to my apartment. Saying goodbye took at least another hour. He sat down on the stairs in the hallway outside my front door, leaning back on an elbow, while we actually had a discussion about whether or not to perform the ritual of the goodnight liplock, an event already rendered moot by the amount of daylight.
I honestly don't remember what we did. Kiss or not kiss. I do remember having a hot two years with J.K. that didn't have to end, but like so many choices I have made, slowly ground to a halt.
Last night, some forty years later, there I was again out on the Planetarium promenade. This time, interestingly, with the daughter and son-in-law of one of the couples who used to drive up from Rantoul. We had driven out there, hoping to provide a visiting cousin of theirs with a view of the city, not unlike the one I had once promised to J.K.
Somehow it seems fitting that the glorious view of Chicago we came to see was completely obscurred by darkened car windows, icy rain, and fog. We all looked at each other, laughed and left.
The circle never ends.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Getting Into The Holiday Spirits
One of the reasons I have never been much of a drinker is that I never liked the taste of alcohol. Not that I didn't experiment occasionally when I got to college, usually with Southern Comfort and Coke.
When I turned 21 I decided to make a real effort to be a drinker. For a whole year I tried hard. More accurately, at 21 I drank hard for a year. I drank beer, hated it, drank wine, hated it, drank hard liquor, hated it. I kept waiting to get used to the flavor. Never happened. Mostly I remember suffering from hangovers and hating those even more. Finally the experiment ended when I turned 22 and realized no one was holding a gun to my head.
I also realized something else. I never had to drink to get into a party mood. Historically, or hysterically, depending on your point of view, my sober personality was so over the top through college and my twenties, thirties, forties, and fifties that I often got credit for being shit-faced when the only six pack I had consumed was ginger ale.
I always thought I just had an outgoing personality. I never understood this perception of drunkenness until I actually saw it once on film. I was working as a young copywriter at my first agency job. Someone in the creative department wanted to shoot a spec commercial for a beer client. This required depicting young men and woman enjoying their beer in a bar. [Some things never change.] So we all signed up for an afternoon at a local watering hole to help the guys out. I thought I looked especially nice the day of the shoot, so I figured I would be front and center when the commercial was all cut together.
Unfortunately, when I saw the spot, I appeared for a second or two at most -- way in the background. According to the producers who had to edit everything together, I was laughing and having such a good time in the closeups that I looked drunk. Everybody knows that while beer companies want you to consume a lot of their product, they don't want it to appear to have any effect. The guys showed me the rest of my footage and I had to agree with them. I looked like I was one shot short of a trip to AA. The good news is that I have been able to spend most of my life being the life of the party without having to wake up wondering who is sleeping next to me.
Which brings me to this holiday season. Now that I'm in my sixties, my personality has finally toned down a bit. When I'm sober, I actually seem sober. Unless the police send someone over for a wellness check, at which point I become INSANE.
For the most part, except for the occasional clown face and one or two fart sounds, you wouldn't think I was anything but a mature woman, perhaps even with grandchildren.
Maybe this modulation of my flamboyant personality is the reason that alcohol has become more flavorful to my palate in recent years. As one side of me diminishes, the other flourishes. My new appreciation for the taste of liquor -- specifically a little wine and the occasional Kahlua and cream, also has a built in mechanism to keep me from overindulging. I start to fall asleep after more than one glass of anything. The faster I drink it, the faster I start nodding off. But lately this seems to be cramping my style. No one wants to find themselves face down in a plate during the holidays.
Yesterday I heard a solution to this problem on the radio. Use a capful of extract instead of alcohol in my drinks. Why didn't I think of this before? For instance, I happen to like eggnog this time of year, but I can barely handle more than a cup of the spiked stuff. Now I can substitute the booze with a capful of extract. Rum extract and brandy extract are two obvious choices. But based on a trip through Google, you can get an extract for almost anything. From alcohol flavors to melons, sauces, even vegetables.
With extracts to replace everything, it occurred to me that I could save some calories by using a cap of chocolate extract in my milk instead of the usual half cup of Hershey's syrup I pour. Then heat it up and add some peppermint extract for hot chocolate. Maybe there's a milk extract too, so I could fit the whole cup of peppermint flavored hot chocolate into a teaspoon. Think of the time you could save.
This gets me to wondering whether I could get a shot glass and just fill it with extract of breakfast, lunch or dinner. Satisfy your need for the taste of food, and maybe you don't actually need the food itself. I'm on a roll here. Jenny Craig move over, there's a new diet in town.
Wait a sec. I am getting way off the subject here. Whatever it was. Maybe I should -- z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z.
When I turned 21 I decided to make a real effort to be a drinker. For a whole year I tried hard. More accurately, at 21 I drank hard for a year. I drank beer, hated it, drank wine, hated it, drank hard liquor, hated it. I kept waiting to get used to the flavor. Never happened. Mostly I remember suffering from hangovers and hating those even more. Finally the experiment ended when I turned 22 and realized no one was holding a gun to my head.
I also realized something else. I never had to drink to get into a party mood. Historically, or hysterically, depending on your point of view, my sober personality was so over the top through college and my twenties, thirties, forties, and fifties that I often got credit for being shit-faced when the only six pack I had consumed was ginger ale.
I always thought I just had an outgoing personality. I never understood this perception of drunkenness until I actually saw it once on film. I was working as a young copywriter at my first agency job. Someone in the creative department wanted to shoot a spec commercial for a beer client. This required depicting young men and woman enjoying their beer in a bar. [Some things never change.] So we all signed up for an afternoon at a local watering hole to help the guys out. I thought I looked especially nice the day of the shoot, so I figured I would be front and center when the commercial was all cut together.
Unfortunately, when I saw the spot, I appeared for a second or two at most -- way in the background. According to the producers who had to edit everything together, I was laughing and having such a good time in the closeups that I looked drunk. Everybody knows that while beer companies want you to consume a lot of their product, they don't want it to appear to have any effect. The guys showed me the rest of my footage and I had to agree with them. I looked like I was one shot short of a trip to AA. The good news is that I have been able to spend most of my life being the life of the party without having to wake up wondering who is sleeping next to me.
Which brings me to this holiday season. Now that I'm in my sixties, my personality has finally toned down a bit. When I'm sober, I actually seem sober. Unless the police send someone over for a wellness check, at which point I become INSANE.
For the most part, except for the occasional clown face and one or two fart sounds, you wouldn't think I was anything but a mature woman, perhaps even with grandchildren.
Maybe this modulation of my flamboyant personality is the reason that alcohol has become more flavorful to my palate in recent years. As one side of me diminishes, the other flourishes. My new appreciation for the taste of liquor -- specifically a little wine and the occasional Kahlua and cream, also has a built in mechanism to keep me from overindulging. I start to fall asleep after more than one glass of anything. The faster I drink it, the faster I start nodding off. But lately this seems to be cramping my style. No one wants to find themselves face down in a plate during the holidays.
Yesterday I heard a solution to this problem on the radio. Use a capful of extract instead of alcohol in my drinks. Why didn't I think of this before? For instance, I happen to like eggnog this time of year, but I can barely handle more than a cup of the spiked stuff. Now I can substitute the booze with a capful of extract. Rum extract and brandy extract are two obvious choices. But based on a trip through Google, you can get an extract for almost anything. From alcohol flavors to melons, sauces, even vegetables.
With extracts to replace everything, it occurred to me that I could save some calories by using a cap of chocolate extract in my milk instead of the usual half cup of Hershey's syrup I pour. Then heat it up and add some peppermint extract for hot chocolate. Maybe there's a milk extract too, so I could fit the whole cup of peppermint flavored hot chocolate into a teaspoon. Think of the time you could save.
This gets me to wondering whether I could get a shot glass and just fill it with extract of breakfast, lunch or dinner. Satisfy your need for the taste of food, and maybe you don't actually need the food itself. I'm on a roll here. Jenny Craig move over, there's a new diet in town.
Wait a sec. I am getting way off the subject here. Whatever it was. Maybe I should -- z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z.
Friday, December 7, 2007
It's Paul Newman's Fault
Okay now we have to listen to all the do-dah about when, and of course, why the kid who executed all those people in Omaha fell through the cracks. As if the floorboards just suddenly opened up and he came crashing through.
Was it when he was showing everybody the Kalishnikov the night before he went on his rampage? Or when he was kicked out of his mother's house a year ago? Or when he got rejected by the military? Or lost his girlfriend? Or got fired? Or suffered from any of the other ISSUES he's had for years and years and years?
Nope. He's been slipping through the buttcrack of society one little splinter at a time. Each time he did something a little worse than the last time. Dropping hints about his distress like Hansel and Gretel leaving a trail of crumbs behind in the hope that they could find their way out of the forest. Not enough to get anybody's attention in time. But enough to let us know in retrospect that he was keeping his sanity together with bailing wire and string.
Empty the barf bag of his life and something will fall out.
As her readers know by now, Mrs. Linklater believes there are two chances this kid was not subjected to an inappropriate sexual experience. Slim and none. But she'll keep an open mind. Once they can eliminate all parents and step-parents, siblings and other relatives, family friends, babysitters, teachers, coaches, scout leaders, camp counselors, teen pastors, priests, etc., etc.
The TV shirnks always bring up the possibility of some genetic predisposition to mental illness. Like it's a foregone conclusion you're going to be shooting up a mall from the time of your first poopy diaper. Bull hockey. First because too many people who have the "mental illness" gene live perfectly normal lives. Second, because people without the gene can become mentally ill, given the right circumstances.
Something has to light the fuse.
And this kid's fuse got lit a long long time ago. Everything that came after conspired to create the perfect storm that was unleashed a couple of days ago. Taking out all those people wasn't the result of some foregone biological conclusion.
It was as simple as a failure to communicate. Maybe someday, they'll just call shopping mall massacres the Cool Hand Luke syndrome.
Was it when he was showing everybody the Kalishnikov the night before he went on his rampage? Or when he was kicked out of his mother's house a year ago? Or when he got rejected by the military? Or lost his girlfriend? Or got fired? Or suffered from any of the other ISSUES he's had for years and years and years?
Nope. He's been slipping through the buttcrack of society one little splinter at a time. Each time he did something a little worse than the last time. Dropping hints about his distress like Hansel and Gretel leaving a trail of crumbs behind in the hope that they could find their way out of the forest. Not enough to get anybody's attention in time. But enough to let us know in retrospect that he was keeping his sanity together with bailing wire and string.
Empty the barf bag of his life and something will fall out.
As her readers know by now, Mrs. Linklater believes there are two chances this kid was not subjected to an inappropriate sexual experience. Slim and none. But she'll keep an open mind. Once they can eliminate all parents and step-parents, siblings and other relatives, family friends, babysitters, teachers, coaches, scout leaders, camp counselors, teen pastors, priests, etc., etc.
The TV shirnks always bring up the possibility of some genetic predisposition to mental illness. Like it's a foregone conclusion you're going to be shooting up a mall from the time of your first poopy diaper. Bull hockey. First because too many people who have the "mental illness" gene live perfectly normal lives. Second, because people without the gene can become mentally ill, given the right circumstances.
Something has to light the fuse.
And this kid's fuse got lit a long long time ago. Everything that came after conspired to create the perfect storm that was unleashed a couple of days ago. Taking out all those people wasn't the result of some foregone biological conclusion.
It was as simple as a failure to communicate. Maybe someday, they'll just call shopping mall massacres the Cool Hand Luke syndrome.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
It's On The News So It Must Be True
A few years ago a three year old girl was taken from her family's home at night. She was found sexually assaulted and dead in the river nearby. Several months later her father was arrested for her murder. He was tried and convicted. All along he said he was innocent. Luckily DNA evidence finally proved that he wasn't the killer. Now the family is suing the county cops in civil court for being so stupid.
Yesterday, during the trial, the dad took the stand to describe what he went through while he was incarcerated. Threats of death from other inmates, stuff like that. So there was news coverage about his ordeal on the radio and TV. Now for the point of all this. What struck me was how one reporter said the guy had spent eight months in prison. Another reporter on another station said he had spent eighteen months in prison. Then a radio analyst said he had spent eight years in prison.
Now we're getting different stories about the massacre in Omaha.
First the kid was 20. Then he was 19. First he shot everybody because his girlfriend broke up with him. Then he shot everybody because he lost his job. Then he was facing charges for drug possesion. He was living with his step-parents. He was living with a family friend who took him in.
In the Drew Peterson case, he supposedly had a relative help him move a blue plastic barrel from his house the night his wife went missing. Then it was a box of some sort. Now we're back to the blue barrel.
Everybody heard the story of the English school teacher in Sudan who let her class name some kind of toy after the prophet Muhammed. That's a big no-no in the Islamic community. A jail time no-no.
Except it turns out the kids actually named the toy after one of the children in the class whose name is also Muhammed. THE KID named Muhammed apparently got confused with THE PROPHET named Muhammed by the powers that be. While it is true that THE KID Muhammed is named after THE PROPHET Muhammed, as are most members of the male population who reside in Islamic countries, THE TOY Muhammed was not. But you can see why there might be some difficulty sorting this out. Unfortunately confusion like this is punishable by whipping and prison time under Islamic law. Until the whole world heard about this latest sign of the Apocalypse and soon after, the teacher's apology and a plane ticket home were accepted instead.
Now we're freezing rates on home mortgages for five years, except you have to qualify first. First the freeze was for everybody wtih a subprime loan. Now it isn't. Baslcally this means if your house is in foreclosure, don't bother. Your payments have to be up to date. And this is helpful how?
Yesterday, during the trial, the dad took the stand to describe what he went through while he was incarcerated. Threats of death from other inmates, stuff like that. So there was news coverage about his ordeal on the radio and TV. Now for the point of all this. What struck me was how one reporter said the guy had spent eight months in prison. Another reporter on another station said he had spent eighteen months in prison. Then a radio analyst said he had spent eight years in prison.
Now we're getting different stories about the massacre in Omaha.
First the kid was 20. Then he was 19. First he shot everybody because his girlfriend broke up with him. Then he shot everybody because he lost his job. Then he was facing charges for drug possesion. He was living with his step-parents. He was living with a family friend who took him in.
In the Drew Peterson case, he supposedly had a relative help him move a blue plastic barrel from his house the night his wife went missing. Then it was a box of some sort. Now we're back to the blue barrel.
Everybody heard the story of the English school teacher in Sudan who let her class name some kind of toy after the prophet Muhammed. That's a big no-no in the Islamic community. A jail time no-no.
Except it turns out the kids actually named the toy after one of the children in the class whose name is also Muhammed. THE KID named Muhammed apparently got confused with THE PROPHET named Muhammed by the powers that be. While it is true that THE KID Muhammed is named after THE PROPHET Muhammed, as are most members of the male population who reside in Islamic countries, THE TOY Muhammed was not. But you can see why there might be some difficulty sorting this out. Unfortunately confusion like this is punishable by whipping and prison time under Islamic law. Until the whole world heard about this latest sign of the Apocalypse and soon after, the teacher's apology and a plane ticket home were accepted instead.
Now we're freezing rates on home mortgages for five years, except you have to qualify first. First the freeze was for everybody wtih a subprime loan. Now it isn't. Baslcally this means if your house is in foreclosure, don't bother. Your payments have to be up to date. And this is helpful how?
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
The Real Snow Storm
I guess that storm we had over the weekend was just for practice. A kick in the pants to get the snowblowers ready. The real storm went through here last night. Complete with lake effect snow.
As near as I can tell lake effect means that the clouds, which usually move east across the water towards the state of Michigan, turn around and head back our way. At this point the lake starts to act like a huge glass of water. Coming back across the lake, the clouds are like giant straws, sucking up water and turning it into snow, now that the weather is cold enough. When the clouds hit the warm land back on our side, they stop and take a big dump, and they don't stop evacuating until there's a strong enough wind to push them back across the lake again. This laxative usually takes twelve hours or so to finish doing its job. So the snow may fall gently, but it falls relentlessly. Then if the clouds really get stuck on our side of the lake, we can get as much as 27 inches in 24 hours like we did back in 1967.
Needless to say the sissy storm last weekend didn't require a snowblower because everything melted the next day. Today with six to seven inches on the the ground the snowblowers were out making driveways safe for mail carriers and wellness checks.
Except mine. When I could no longer shovel my driveway, I bought a 5 HP machine at full retail a few snow storms ago. My neighbor and I agreed to share it. Since I paid through the nose for it, he would maintain it, keep it at his place, and snow blow my driveway when it was needed.
So I was a little disappointed to discover that my driveway had not been cleared when I went out this morning. Disappointed? I think "Oh, sh*t" is what I said when I came outside.
When I got back from doing errands, nothing had been done this afternoon either. I was going to call and tell my neighbors just to get the machine started up and I would do my own driveway, but they weren't home.
Then I noticed the new guy from across the street had fired up a huge snowblower that looked like it could take out an iceberg. He was walking around the neighborhood doing driveways and sidewalks on his own.
Maybe he'll do mine I thought. Strangely, since I'm the only single lady living alone, he only did my sidewalk and then, inexplicably, he began doing my neighbors' driveway. WTF?
Wait a minute, those people have a snowblower -- my snowblower -- and they can do their own driveway. AFTER they do my driveway.
Hoping to get the new guy to do MY driveway, because I deserved it more than my neighbors, I walked over to thank him for doing my sidewalk. I asked him about his snowblower, mustering up as much admiration as I could for something that does nothing but spit snow. Wow, 9 HP. Mine is only 5 HP -- my neighbor has it in his garage. Yes, the neighbor whose driveway you just did. He's supposed to do my driveway when it snows -- did I mention that it's my snowblower that he has in his garage. But now that you've done his driveway, I'm not sure mine will get done.
The new guy said he just got his snowblower and he was only trying to be a good neighbor. Sure. Sure. I figured chances were good that I could get my driveway done after all. Considering that the new guy built a monstrous house with an ugly turret that's been on the market for over a year, he has a lot of good nieghbor catching up to do. I nodded and smiled at him, walked back to my house, hoping he'd get the hint and finish MY driveway.
Didn't happen. He actually walked passed my house and took his new machine over to help another neighbor, who was out shoveling his driveway. So now two of my neighbors, one of whom should have done my driveway early this morning, both have clean driveways, thanks to the new guy.
And I got squat.
As near as I can tell lake effect means that the clouds, which usually move east across the water towards the state of Michigan, turn around and head back our way. At this point the lake starts to act like a huge glass of water. Coming back across the lake, the clouds are like giant straws, sucking up water and turning it into snow, now that the weather is cold enough. When the clouds hit the warm land back on our side, they stop and take a big dump, and they don't stop evacuating until there's a strong enough wind to push them back across the lake again. This laxative usually takes twelve hours or so to finish doing its job. So the snow may fall gently, but it falls relentlessly. Then if the clouds really get stuck on our side of the lake, we can get as much as 27 inches in 24 hours like we did back in 1967.
Needless to say the sissy storm last weekend didn't require a snowblower because everything melted the next day. Today with six to seven inches on the the ground the snowblowers were out making driveways safe for mail carriers and wellness checks.
Except mine. When I could no longer shovel my driveway, I bought a 5 HP machine at full retail a few snow storms ago. My neighbor and I agreed to share it. Since I paid through the nose for it, he would maintain it, keep it at his place, and snow blow my driveway when it was needed.
So I was a little disappointed to discover that my driveway had not been cleared when I went out this morning. Disappointed? I think "Oh, sh*t" is what I said when I came outside.
When I got back from doing errands, nothing had been done this afternoon either. I was going to call and tell my neighbors just to get the machine started up and I would do my own driveway, but they weren't home.
Then I noticed the new guy from across the street had fired up a huge snowblower that looked like it could take out an iceberg. He was walking around the neighborhood doing driveways and sidewalks on his own.
Maybe he'll do mine I thought. Strangely, since I'm the only single lady living alone, he only did my sidewalk and then, inexplicably, he began doing my neighbors' driveway. WTF?
Wait a minute, those people have a snowblower -- my snowblower -- and they can do their own driveway. AFTER they do my driveway.
Hoping to get the new guy to do MY driveway, because I deserved it more than my neighbors, I walked over to thank him for doing my sidewalk. I asked him about his snowblower, mustering up as much admiration as I could for something that does nothing but spit snow. Wow, 9 HP. Mine is only 5 HP -- my neighbor has it in his garage. Yes, the neighbor whose driveway you just did. He's supposed to do my driveway when it snows -- did I mention that it's my snowblower that he has in his garage. But now that you've done his driveway, I'm not sure mine will get done.
The new guy said he just got his snowblower and he was only trying to be a good neighbor. Sure. Sure. I figured chances were good that I could get my driveway done after all. Considering that the new guy built a monstrous house with an ugly turret that's been on the market for over a year, he has a lot of good nieghbor catching up to do. I nodded and smiled at him, walked back to my house, hoping he'd get the hint and finish MY driveway.
Didn't happen. He actually walked passed my house and took his new machine over to help another neighbor, who was out shoveling his driveway. So now two of my neighbors, one of whom should have done my driveway early this morning, both have clean driveways, thanks to the new guy.
And I got squat.
Monday, December 3, 2007
The New Guy Is A Bodybuilder
I don't know about you, but if I'm introduced to someone and I'm told he or she is a bodybuilder, I make some assumptions, starting with the fact that I wouldn't expect him or her to be an FBI agent. Bulging muscles can really chafe against a concealed weapon. Besides, the agents I've known blend in. Bodybuilders, on the other hand, tend to stick out.
Not to mention that bodybuilders eat weird food. Imagine what stakeouts would be like. No pizza, potato chips or coke during a long night for bodybuilding FBI dudes and dudettes. These are high protein powder people who avoid fat and bad carbs like herpes.
Eating with them at restaurants is not fun, either, because they're always commenting on how food affects your body, in between other conversation-killing subjects like the latest supplements and their workout diaries. Also, they hog the mirror. Usually naked. Actually you could be standing right next to a bodybuilder flashing your naughty bits and they wouldn't blink. Plus, if they've become really muscular, you have to wonder if his package has been shrink-wrapped with steroids.
All those things started going through my mind last week when the Mayor of Chicago introduced his new top cop. Aside from the fact that the new guy has a cross gender first name, Jody, which might as well be a boy named Sue in the Windy City, we learned the guy is a bodybuilder, right after we were told he was the FBI's special agent, blah blah blah in Philadelphia.
It's one thing for a member of law enforcement to stay in shape by going to the gym, but to do it so he can sculpt his body is kinda creepy.
Not to mention that during his introduction, there was nobody that looked remotely like a family member, nor did I see any short persons who resemble children loitering behind the podium, looking on with admiration at dear old Dad. However, based on my wellness check experiences, keeping the family out of sight may be warranted.
Are you thinking what I'm thinking? That he's gay? Truthfully, it crossed my mind 12 or 13 times. It wouldn't matter if he were out of the closet. But if he is gay, he's not out. Even so, the issue is a little more than that. My curiosity starts with -- this guy is 49. If he's never been married or even partnered up with someone from either gender at some point, AND he's a bodybuilder -- what we have here may be a RoboCop who lives and breathes his profession and has no personal life.The Ralph Nader of law enforcement with a gym membership.
We also have that guy Souter on the Supreme Court. Never married. Doesn't watch TV. But he's not in charge of a police force.
I've been concerned enough about the new guy, in my nosy, get a life, ever the busybody way, to try tracking down any kind of personal bio for him, without much luck. During my search I did find an interesting blog that's written by an anonymous Chicago police officer. But, so far nothing I can find gives much of a clue about Jody Weis.
Which brings us to Mrs Linklater's cockamammy and totally unsubstantiated theories: Based on the careful MISpronunciation of his last name, Jody Weis [he says WEESE] is Catholic. Without evidence [so far] of a wife and family, he's either gay or celibate because 1] he was mentored [wink wink] by a priest, OR 2] he's not gay or celibate, but remains unmarried because his mother died when he was young OR 3] early on he chose law enforcement over serial killing [see RoboCop personality mentioned above] because the pay is better.
Mrs. Linklater's B.S. factor is often in the high nineties, so don't bet the farm on her prognostications.
Not to mention that bodybuilders eat weird food. Imagine what stakeouts would be like. No pizza, potato chips or coke during a long night for bodybuilding FBI dudes and dudettes. These are high protein powder people who avoid fat and bad carbs like herpes.
Eating with them at restaurants is not fun, either, because they're always commenting on how food affects your body, in between other conversation-killing subjects like the latest supplements and their workout diaries. Also, they hog the mirror. Usually naked. Actually you could be standing right next to a bodybuilder flashing your naughty bits and they wouldn't blink. Plus, if they've become really muscular, you have to wonder if his package has been shrink-wrapped with steroids.
All those things started going through my mind last week when the Mayor of Chicago introduced his new top cop. Aside from the fact that the new guy has a cross gender first name, Jody, which might as well be a boy named Sue in the Windy City, we learned the guy is a bodybuilder, right after we were told he was the FBI's special agent, blah blah blah in Philadelphia.
It's one thing for a member of law enforcement to stay in shape by going to the gym, but to do it so he can sculpt his body is kinda creepy.
Not to mention that during his introduction, there was nobody that looked remotely like a family member, nor did I see any short persons who resemble children loitering behind the podium, looking on with admiration at dear old Dad. However, based on my wellness check experiences, keeping the family out of sight may be warranted.
Are you thinking what I'm thinking? That he's gay? Truthfully, it crossed my mind 12 or 13 times. It wouldn't matter if he were out of the closet. But if he is gay, he's not out. Even so, the issue is a little more than that. My curiosity starts with -- this guy is 49. If he's never been married or even partnered up with someone from either gender at some point, AND he's a bodybuilder -- what we have here may be a RoboCop who lives and breathes his profession and has no personal life.The Ralph Nader of law enforcement with a gym membership.
We also have that guy Souter on the Supreme Court. Never married. Doesn't watch TV. But he's not in charge of a police force.
I've been concerned enough about the new guy, in my nosy, get a life, ever the busybody way, to try tracking down any kind of personal bio for him, without much luck. During my search I did find an interesting blog that's written by an anonymous Chicago police officer. But, so far nothing I can find gives much of a clue about Jody Weis.
Which brings us to Mrs Linklater's cockamammy and totally unsubstantiated theories: Based on the careful MISpronunciation of his last name, Jody Weis [he says WEESE] is Catholic. Without evidence [so far] of a wife and family, he's either gay or celibate because 1] he was mentored [wink wink] by a priest, OR 2] he's not gay or celibate, but remains unmarried because his mother died when he was young OR 3] early on he chose law enforcement over serial killing [see RoboCop personality mentioned above] because the pay is better.
Mrs. Linklater's B.S. factor is often in the high nineties, so don't bet the farm on her prognostications.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
The Same Old Storm
Every year on December second or so, we have a snow storm around here. This year it blew through on December first. I think the timing is perfect because the five or six inches we usually get are just right for wonderful, wintry Christmas card pictures.
This storm knocked out power and caused more accidents than usual. Some people even died. We also didn't get the blue skies and sunshine that normally follow. Instead we had a warm cloudy day with rain. Not very Christmasy.
But the storm's appearance at this time of year should not come as a shock to anyone. Especially the weather forecasters. I don't know why they don't just check the almanac and automatically put it on their to-do list, instead of acting like it's some kind of meteorlogical phenomenon every time. "We're getting an early storm here in a couple of days, a little unexpected. . ."
Yo -- Doppler radar breath -- this year was no different than all the other years. Same date pretty much. Same time. Same place. Okay, the storm was a little sleetier and a little more slippery, but it's the same old storm we've been having for years. I've got pictures of me from twenty years ago, standing in front of my big evergreen, next to a very short snowman I made from the heavy wet stuff we got on this same date. I still had dark roots back then. There's also one of me holding a wreath in front of the same tree a few years later with straighter, even blonder hair. Come back in a couple of weeks and the pix will finally get posted.
My personal experience this year was also slightly different than previous years. I arrived home in one piece, after driving around watching people slide through intersections, hit curbs and spin out, only to discover that my storm doors were iced shut.This was not a happy occasion, since I usually get back to my house needing to use the bathroom. It quickly became clear that my biological imperative was stronger than I was. No matter how hard I tried the door was frozen shut. So I called a friend and drove as quickly as I could to her bathroom.
After heeding nature's call, I was invited to stay overnight and deal with the iced doors in the morning. Ever the procrastinator, I accepted.
There was a copy of "From Bagdad With Love" on the nightstand by the guest bed. It's just one of a bunch of recent, heartwarming nonfiction books about dogs. Although there's also a good one about a baby whale called "Grayson." FBWL on the other hand, is about a marine colonel who saved a stray puppy, despite regulations which forbid fraternizing with animals. He managed to get him back home against all odds, one of which was having the dog taken from him and shot. I finished the book under cozy covers this morning instead of fighting Mother Nature at my house.
When I left there was almost no evidence that a snow/ice/sleet storm had come through last night. Back home again, my stuck door opened with little effort. I made the right decision.
There's no snow left, so no pictures. But, like I said, there's always next year.
This storm knocked out power and caused more accidents than usual. Some people even died. We also didn't get the blue skies and sunshine that normally follow. Instead we had a warm cloudy day with rain. Not very Christmasy.
But the storm's appearance at this time of year should not come as a shock to anyone. Especially the weather forecasters. I don't know why they don't just check the almanac and automatically put it on their to-do list, instead of acting like it's some kind of meteorlogical phenomenon every time. "We're getting an early storm here in a couple of days, a little unexpected. . ."
Yo -- Doppler radar breath -- this year was no different than all the other years. Same date pretty much. Same time. Same place. Okay, the storm was a little sleetier and a little more slippery, but it's the same old storm we've been having for years. I've got pictures of me from twenty years ago, standing in front of my big evergreen, next to a very short snowman I made from the heavy wet stuff we got on this same date. I still had dark roots back then. There's also one of me holding a wreath in front of the same tree a few years later with straighter, even blonder hair. Come back in a couple of weeks and the pix will finally get posted.
My personal experience this year was also slightly different than previous years. I arrived home in one piece, after driving around watching people slide through intersections, hit curbs and spin out, only to discover that my storm doors were iced shut.This was not a happy occasion, since I usually get back to my house needing to use the bathroom. It quickly became clear that my biological imperative was stronger than I was. No matter how hard I tried the door was frozen shut. So I called a friend and drove as quickly as I could to her bathroom.
After heeding nature's call, I was invited to stay overnight and deal with the iced doors in the morning. Ever the procrastinator, I accepted.
There was a copy of "From Bagdad With Love" on the nightstand by the guest bed. It's just one of a bunch of recent, heartwarming nonfiction books about dogs. Although there's also a good one about a baby whale called "Grayson." FBWL on the other hand, is about a marine colonel who saved a stray puppy, despite regulations which forbid fraternizing with animals. He managed to get him back home against all odds, one of which was having the dog taken from him and shot. I finished the book under cozy covers this morning instead of fighting Mother Nature at my house.
When I left there was almost no evidence that a snow/ice/sleet storm had come through last night. Back home again, my stuck door opened with little effort. I made the right decision.
There's no snow left, so no pictures. But, like I said, there's always next year.
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