I just saw a segment on the news that I found very interesting. Apparently people with Parkinson's don't experience shaking when they dance. After the music stops they remain free from the palsy for awhile and they can enjoy feeling normal. I've also seen reports on Alzheimer's patients who can't speak anymore, but they can still sing the words of songs. Makes you wonder if the part of our brains that stores music and dancing is immune from the ravages of some diseases.
Recently Sixty Minutes had a piece about the overweight folks who get gastric by-pass surgery. I believe Leslie Stahl said that eighty percent of obese people with Type I diabetes are cured after having the surgery. Cured quickly too, since most claimed that they were able to go off their medication within days of surgery. Or even before they went home.
Some Italian physician discovered that removing the duodenum was the strange key to unlock a diabetes cure in his experiments with mice. Unfortunately, in the US of A, only fat people are permitted to undergo gastric bypass surgery. If you have Type I diabetes in Iowa City and you're not fat, too bad.
Makes me wonder if the medicos ought to be thinking more creatively when they're trying to come up with cures.
We already know that dark chocolate is full of antioxidants which are good for your circulatory system. Not to mention all the endorphins released when you eat it.
But have we explored ALL the therapeutic possibilities of its cousin, milk chocolate, yet? Especially those little Dove squares that taste so good at three in the afternoon.
How about looking for the miracles that surely lie within Chunky Monkey ice cream. Or the healing properties of Slurpees.
I will personally fund the studies for anything with steak. I'll pop for a filet mignon's worth at least. And while we're at it, I'm happy to throw in a pound of butter.
I'm only half kidding, since there have been plenty of home remedies for everything from soaking your feet in Listerine for toe fungus to putting hemorrhoid cream under your eyes to remove puffiness. Using products originally intended for other things -- or as the pharms say, "off label" -- is nothing new.
Many years ago I got a severe sunburn in Hawaii the day before my girlfriend's wedding. I took a bath in ice cold water just to get away from the fire on my skin. Afterward, the bride went out into her family's backyard and sliced open a huge leaf from an aloe plant. She took her hand and scooped out the viscous, clear jelly inside and slathered it all over me -- everywhere except for my face. Aloe has been a native Hawaiian remedy for burns of all kinds for centuries. As a result, I never blistered and never peeled. From my neck down.
When I was flying back to the mainland, I wondered why the sailor next to me was looking over a lot. I wasn't THAT gorgeous. Until I went into the lavatory and discovered that the skin on my face, which didn't get any aloe, was all cracked, like marble. I got some lotion from the flight attendant, used it to glue my face back together and then peeled it off. I was left with a dark brown edge from my forehead to my chin, and fresh, pink baby skin in the middle. Ooh la la.
Within a few years I noticed that aloe started showing up as an ingredient in moisturizers. But there's nothing like the real thing fresh from the garden.
Let's see, maybe now's a good time to evaluate the therapeutic properties of cheese popcorn.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Happy Birthday, Dear Euphemia
Today is the 65th birthday of my friend, Euphemia, a girlfriend since I was 17. Despite a name that sounds like a kidney disease, there are at least three generations of women in her family with "Euphemia" embedded somewhere in their monikers. Fortunately, none of them uses it except for signing important documents.
Euphemia's name actually came in handy when I was getting married in the Catholic Church. Since my Episcopal background was already seriously suspect, I was worried that the priest wouldn't approve of my pregnant, Protestant matron of honor -- until she told him her name was Euphemia. He looked up, smiled, and said, "Oh, after Saint Euphemia." Why, uh, yes.
Euph and I met on the first day of our freshmen year in college. She had recently moved into the room across the hall from me. I had just met my roommate, who was not the outgoing, attractive person I'd hoped. Plus she smelled odd.
To hide my disappointment and escape the odor, I stepped into the hall. Across the way there was a larger, brighter room, where someone was standing in front of the mirror fixing her hair. My first impression of the Euphmeister was that she looked like a poster girl for Aryan supremacy, She stood almost as tall as I was, with nearly white blond hair and blue eyes the size of dessert plates.
Except for our height, we didn't look anything alike. She was Germanic perfection. I was Olive Oyl. To be fair, I had a nodding resemblance to a Jane Austen heroine when the humidity wasn't too high, with my pointy English features, naturally curly auburn hair and brown eyes.
I walked in to say hello, hoping to make a friend, since it was clear that my assigned roommate wasn't going to be an option. It was a done deal from the moment we introduced ourselves. Why? Perhaps because she too had suffered a disappointing introduction to her own roommate, a short, pale, almost sickly, and disastrously acne-faced person who was devoid of personality.
But mostly I think we bonded because she and I had the same sense of humor. Not the subtle, sophisticated humor you might expect from reading my entries here. But something more dramatic and theatrical, with big eyerolls and a penchant for pratfalls. Yep. She was just like ME. Think Carol Channing meets Carol Burnett. I had definitely found a new best friend.
We spent the rest of that first semester plotting ways to swap out our roommates. It turned out that those two had a lot in common. They were both serious. They were both apparently unconcerned about their appearance or dating, and neither one seemed to notice any peculiar smell. So, in the end, even they thought a roommate switch was a good idea.
Now, here it is, almost five decades and many memories later. One of the reasons I can remember that April 28th is Euphamistic's birthday is that one year she called me up every day for at least a month and whispered into my voicemail, "April 28th, April 28th, April 28th, April 28th." Now that's a good friend.
After five kids between the two of us, plus a husband here and there, a growing pile of grandchildren, a great many Thanksgivings, a few college reunions, and lots of summers on the Jersey shore, one thing remains constant despite the lengthy passage of time.
She's still older than I am.
Happy Birthday, girlfriend.
Euphemia's name actually came in handy when I was getting married in the Catholic Church. Since my Episcopal background was already seriously suspect, I was worried that the priest wouldn't approve of my pregnant, Protestant matron of honor -- until she told him her name was Euphemia. He looked up, smiled, and said, "Oh, after Saint Euphemia." Why, uh, yes.
Euph and I met on the first day of our freshmen year in college. She had recently moved into the room across the hall from me. I had just met my roommate, who was not the outgoing, attractive person I'd hoped. Plus she smelled odd.
To hide my disappointment and escape the odor, I stepped into the hall. Across the way there was a larger, brighter room, where someone was standing in front of the mirror fixing her hair. My first impression of the Euphmeister was that she looked like a poster girl for Aryan supremacy, She stood almost as tall as I was, with nearly white blond hair and blue eyes the size of dessert plates.
Except for our height, we didn't look anything alike. She was Germanic perfection. I was Olive Oyl. To be fair, I had a nodding resemblance to a Jane Austen heroine when the humidity wasn't too high, with my pointy English features, naturally curly auburn hair and brown eyes.
I walked in to say hello, hoping to make a friend, since it was clear that my assigned roommate wasn't going to be an option. It was a done deal from the moment we introduced ourselves. Why? Perhaps because she too had suffered a disappointing introduction to her own roommate, a short, pale, almost sickly, and disastrously acne-faced person who was devoid of personality.
But mostly I think we bonded because she and I had the same sense of humor. Not the subtle, sophisticated humor you might expect from reading my entries here. But something more dramatic and theatrical, with big eyerolls and a penchant for pratfalls. Yep. She was just like ME. Think Carol Channing meets Carol Burnett. I had definitely found a new best friend.
We spent the rest of that first semester plotting ways to swap out our roommates. It turned out that those two had a lot in common. They were both serious. They were both apparently unconcerned about their appearance or dating, and neither one seemed to notice any peculiar smell. So, in the end, even they thought a roommate switch was a good idea.
Now, here it is, almost five decades and many memories later. One of the reasons I can remember that April 28th is Euphamistic's birthday is that one year she called me up every day for at least a month and whispered into my voicemail, "April 28th, April 28th, April 28th, April 28th." Now that's a good friend.
After five kids between the two of us, plus a husband here and there, a growing pile of grandchildren, a great many Thanksgivings, a few college reunions, and lots of summers on the Jersey shore, one thing remains constant despite the lengthy passage of time.
She's still older than I am.
Happy Birthday, girlfriend.
Friday, April 25, 2008
TV Quiz
Mrs. Linklater watches her share of television. Chances are she watches your share, too. In fact, there is never time when she can't find something to rivet her interest. Only recently she was fascinated to discover that Mr. Kotter plays poker in the middle of the night these days.
So, just for fun, let's play a guessing game about some of the dialog Mrs. L enjoyed during tonight's offerings.
Can you name the actors who spoke these lines tonight on my TV?
A man's reach must exceed his grasp or what's a penis for?
**************
A. I remember how sensitive I was about my first boy-girl party.
B. That was in college right?
**************
A. That is the battle cry of the chronic masterbater.
B. Define chronic.
**************
A. I'm sorry I yelled at you.
B. I'm sorry I farted into your purse.
**************
A. You just have to let nature take its course.
B. Except that nature keeps telling him to scratch his ass.
**************
A. You know how I found out about French kissing?
B. Mom sliced a plum and stuck her tongue in it.
A. You could have kept that secret to your grave.
**************
A. Name something that's better after it's been broken in.
B. A husband.
**************
There are no prizes for correct answers. Just a warm, tingly feeling that could easily be leaking from a hole in your coffee cup.
See what you're missing? While you're out there raising children, going to concerts, having parties, and making the world a better place, Mrs. Linklater stays focused on her self-appointed task, her finger planted firmly on the remote. It's a tough job, but somebody's got to, you know, blah blah blah.
So, just for fun, let's play a guessing game about some of the dialog Mrs. L enjoyed during tonight's offerings.
Can you name the actors who spoke these lines tonight on my TV?
A man's reach must exceed his grasp or what's a penis for?
**************
A. I remember how sensitive I was about my first boy-girl party.
B. That was in college right?
**************
A. That is the battle cry of the chronic masterbater.
B. Define chronic.
**************
A. I'm sorry I yelled at you.
B. I'm sorry I farted into your purse.
**************
A. You just have to let nature take its course.
B. Except that nature keeps telling him to scratch his ass.
**************
A. You know how I found out about French kissing?
B. Mom sliced a plum and stuck her tongue in it.
A. You could have kept that secret to your grave.
**************
A. Name something that's better after it's been broken in.
B. A husband.
**************
There are no prizes for correct answers. Just a warm, tingly feeling that could easily be leaking from a hole in your coffee cup.
See what you're missing? While you're out there raising children, going to concerts, having parties, and making the world a better place, Mrs. Linklater stays focused on her self-appointed task, her finger planted firmly on the remote. It's a tough job, but somebody's got to, you know, blah blah blah.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Future Masters of The Universe
Here are the winners of a recent golfing event at an MBA school that apparently has almost no minority students, unless you count the one kid in front and the lone female in there somewhere. It costs the parents of these students close to $150K by the time these future wealth managers graduate. So this little golf outing set back some proud moms and dads about a $750 apiece, not counting that spiffy trophy.
The good news is that these first year students beat the second year students. The bad news is that finals are next week.
The good news is that these first year students beat the second year students. The bad news is that finals are next week.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Women's Liberation Can Kill You
Mrs. Linklater has been making predictions for years. Despite numerous requests, she continues to this day. For instance, way back in the 80's she realized that the hormones in birth control pills and HRT were causing breast cancer. Especially if you smoked. Mrs. L constantly annoyed her family and friends with admonitions about not taking those pills. But, like most women, they all wanted to prevent wrinkles and have sex without making babies, so nobody was listening to her at all.
The NIH finally caught on to the fraud a couple of years ago. Not that the pharmaceuticals didn't try to keep the secret for as long as they could. For almost five decades, they have been making obscene amounts of money selling those horse urine pills to unsuspecting females. Women pop them daily with the promise of protection from pregnancy and unsightly pimples when they're young or wrinkles and unpleasant dryness when they're old. So a few of them die. Okay, more than a few. Why bring it up? That would only make the drug companies appear unprincipled, uncaring, and capitalistic.
Still, Mrs. Linklater wonders how many of the women in the original studies from the sixties died from breast and uterine cancer. And she's not even asking about the ones who died during the seventies, eighties and nineties. Somebody's got the numbers. And they're not telling.
Now it seems another one of Mrs. L's unholy predictions has come true. No not that one; it's still attached. This one:
During the years Mrs. Linklater was working as a fulltime single mom, she noticed that she was under an exhorbitant amount of stress. The kind that causes high blood pressure, irritability, exhaustion and eating food when you're not hungry.
She often remarked to herself as she passed out even before her head hit the pillow, that the experience of singlemotherhood would take years off her life.
Apparently, she was right. Yes, Mrs. Linklater is a goner. Or close to it.
Since the people who track these things have been keeping tabs on longevity, there have only been two times that a woman's lifespan has gone backwards instead of forwards. It happened first in Africa when the AIDs epidemic hit. Not unexpected in a continent rife with third world countries, lack of healthcare and curious tribal beliefs that reject western medicine.
But here's today's shocker: the lifespan for women has dropped in the United States. This is stuff that only happens in places without running water and toilets. Not where people have closets with a thousand pairs of shoes.
I don't know how much sooner we American females are supposed to die, but I would think a year earlier than originally promised might be considered fairly momentous among people who monitor those statistics.
I think if they broke out the numbers, it's the single mothers who are wrecking the curve the most. I bet we're the ones who are kicking the bucket a whole lot sooner. As much as five to ten years if you askk me. Frankly, after working and raising children on my own, I feel so sandblasted by life that the thought of living to seventy-five or eighty makes me want to lie down and take a nap. Originally I think we were tabbed for 85 or older. Sheesh.
Most likely, the next group kicking the bucket early are the married moms with careers and kids. The gimme it all babes -- dead way before their expiration dates.
Right now no one knows the exact reason why women in the United States are dying earlier.
As usual, they didn't ask Mrs. Linklater. She knows what has happened to shorten the lives of US women.
We are killing ourselves. Perhaps with a little help from Ortho Novum and Phillip Morris.
But mostly we have been dropping like flies in the name of freedom. Freedom to make our own choices. Freedom to be ourselves. Freedom to have sex or not have sex when we wanted. Freedom to have a career that we liked. Freedom to raise our children alone. Live where we want. Drink all the milk and put the carton back empty. Oh, wait, we don't do that.
So chances are, over the next twenty years, not as many eighty year old American women will be playing shuffleboard on cruise ships in the Mediterranean with husbands who bore them to tears.
We got our freedom. And now it's killing us.
Fine by me.
The NIH finally caught on to the fraud a couple of years ago. Not that the pharmaceuticals didn't try to keep the secret for as long as they could. For almost five decades, they have been making obscene amounts of money selling those horse urine pills to unsuspecting females. Women pop them daily with the promise of protection from pregnancy and unsightly pimples when they're young or wrinkles and unpleasant dryness when they're old. So a few of them die. Okay, more than a few. Why bring it up? That would only make the drug companies appear unprincipled, uncaring, and capitalistic.
Still, Mrs. Linklater wonders how many of the women in the original studies from the sixties died from breast and uterine cancer. And she's not even asking about the ones who died during the seventies, eighties and nineties. Somebody's got the numbers. And they're not telling.
Now it seems another one of Mrs. L's unholy predictions has come true. No not that one; it's still attached. This one:
During the years Mrs. Linklater was working as a fulltime single mom, she noticed that she was under an exhorbitant amount of stress. The kind that causes high blood pressure, irritability, exhaustion and eating food when you're not hungry.
She often remarked to herself as she passed out even before her head hit the pillow, that the experience of singlemotherhood would take years off her life.
Apparently, she was right. Yes, Mrs. Linklater is a goner. Or close to it.
Since the people who track these things have been keeping tabs on longevity, there have only been two times that a woman's lifespan has gone backwards instead of forwards. It happened first in Africa when the AIDs epidemic hit. Not unexpected in a continent rife with third world countries, lack of healthcare and curious tribal beliefs that reject western medicine.
But here's today's shocker: the lifespan for women has dropped in the United States. This is stuff that only happens in places without running water and toilets. Not where people have closets with a thousand pairs of shoes.
I don't know how much sooner we American females are supposed to die, but I would think a year earlier than originally promised might be considered fairly momentous among people who monitor those statistics.
I think if they broke out the numbers, it's the single mothers who are wrecking the curve the most. I bet we're the ones who are kicking the bucket a whole lot sooner. As much as five to ten years if you askk me. Frankly, after working and raising children on my own, I feel so sandblasted by life that the thought of living to seventy-five or eighty makes me want to lie down and take a nap. Originally I think we were tabbed for 85 or older. Sheesh.
Most likely, the next group kicking the bucket early are the married moms with careers and kids. The gimme it all babes -- dead way before their expiration dates.
Right now no one knows the exact reason why women in the United States are dying earlier.
As usual, they didn't ask Mrs. Linklater. She knows what has happened to shorten the lives of US women.
We are killing ourselves. Perhaps with a little help from Ortho Novum and Phillip Morris.
But mostly we have been dropping like flies in the name of freedom. Freedom to make our own choices. Freedom to be ourselves. Freedom to have sex or not have sex when we wanted. Freedom to have a career that we liked. Freedom to raise our children alone. Live where we want. Drink all the milk and put the carton back empty. Oh, wait, we don't do that.
So chances are, over the next twenty years, not as many eighty year old American women will be playing shuffleboard on cruise ships in the Mediterranean with husbands who bore them to tears.
We got our freedom. And now it's killing us.
Fine by me.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Welcome to My World
I've had a weird week. For the past several days I have been at my old high school, taping members of the 2008 senior class for a video that will be presented at their grad night party in June. This task fits into the no good deed goes unpunished genre.
For my efforts, I have been nearly blow-torched by a future sculptor in the art glass class because nobody said "We have ignition."
During the meeting of the automotive club, I was sprayed with sparks from a speeding saw that regularly cuts through thousand pound I-beams. I almost looked into the blinding light of a student welder's torch as he and four other guys were trying to reattach two metal tubes they'd just taken apart and reshaped. And I definitely inhaled some noxious fumes from all the oil used to cool a spinning metal lathe. That's right, I sacrificed myself to record the construction of the club's solar car for a project that won't be finished for two more years.
It was too windy to hold the camera still so I couldn't shoot any seniors playing in a baseball game. But I did capture seniors on the lacrosse team removing the seats from a car so they could sit and watch the game after their own practice.
The next day I showed up at the Out of the Box club's meeting because I heard they did some interesting things. Like have a magician entertain them and show them sleight of hand. Or learn how to do yo-yo tricks from a pro. This time a member of the club was making a presentation about conspiracy theories. His show included a video on the 2012 Enigma, featuring a guy named David Wilcock, who looked normal, but sounded like he had made one too many trips on acid in the sixties. I made the mistake of laughing at one point. I was alone.
Next, after slowly easing my way out of their room, I wanted to catch the future Forest Gumps of America at the meeting of the Ping Pong club, but they weren't around. I did find a member of the Rubik's Cube club who was in the main lobby selling Rubik's Cubes with the school logo on them for $8. Luckily he was also selling slices of pizza for $2 or he wouldn't have made any money.
I asked him what the club members did during their meetings. He said he would work with some of the intermediate kids on their speed. So I videotaped him showing me how fast he could do the Cube. The video looks like it's been sped up. He was that fast.
The pizza got sold in record time too.
Next week: Mrs. Linklater has lunch in the cafeteria.
For my efforts, I have been nearly blow-torched by a future sculptor in the art glass class because nobody said "We have ignition."
During the meeting of the automotive club, I was sprayed with sparks from a speeding saw that regularly cuts through thousand pound I-beams. I almost looked into the blinding light of a student welder's torch as he and four other guys were trying to reattach two metal tubes they'd just taken apart and reshaped. And I definitely inhaled some noxious fumes from all the oil used to cool a spinning metal lathe. That's right, I sacrificed myself to record the construction of the club's solar car for a project that won't be finished for two more years.
It was too windy to hold the camera still so I couldn't shoot any seniors playing in a baseball game. But I did capture seniors on the lacrosse team removing the seats from a car so they could sit and watch the game after their own practice.
The next day I showed up at the Out of the Box club's meeting because I heard they did some interesting things. Like have a magician entertain them and show them sleight of hand. Or learn how to do yo-yo tricks from a pro. This time a member of the club was making a presentation about conspiracy theories. His show included a video on the 2012 Enigma, featuring a guy named David Wilcock, who looked normal, but sounded like he had made one too many trips on acid in the sixties. I made the mistake of laughing at one point. I was alone.
Next, after slowly easing my way out of their room, I wanted to catch the future Forest Gumps of America at the meeting of the Ping Pong club, but they weren't around. I did find a member of the Rubik's Cube club who was in the main lobby selling Rubik's Cubes with the school logo on them for $8. Luckily he was also selling slices of pizza for $2 or he wouldn't have made any money.
I asked him what the club members did during their meetings. He said he would work with some of the intermediate kids on their speed. So I videotaped him showing me how fast he could do the Cube. The video looks like it's been sped up. He was that fast.
The pizza got sold in record time too.
Next week: Mrs. Linklater has lunch in the cafeteria.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Oh, Look -- An Episode of Ask Mrs. Linklater!
Mrs. Linklater makes her usual apology for taking her slow, sweet time getting back here to napalm the wingdings who call themselves advice columnists. But lately she's been on a personal crusade to rid the world of dryer lint and she just got back from the landfill.
Needless to say, the more things change, the more things stay the same. Usually it's the answers that drive Mrs. L to run screaming from the room. This time it was the world's stupidest QUESTION that caused Mrs. Linklater to spew milk through her nose and accidentally fart when she burped afterward. Not pretty.
To make matters worse, Abba Dabba's reply was almost as lame as the question. So sit back, relax, and watch Ms. Cranky Pants work her magic at no cost to you.
DEAR ABBY: For most of my life, I have parted my hair on the right. I am now being told that men should part their hair on the left. Is there a correct side for men?
HARRY W., MORRO BAY, CALIF.
DEAR HARRY: I relayed your question to my hair design consultant, Bob Cox. According to Bob, people naturally have a cowlick (or "whorl") on one side of their scalp from which the hair growth pattern emerges. (Some people have two, although one is usually stronger than the other.) This is what determines which way the hair will naturally fall when it is parted.
Bob went on to relate the story of a client who had recently been referred to him. The gentleman had been going to his former barber for 15 years, and for 15 years his hair had never been easy to manage. Over the last couple of years, the problem had become so bad that his wife had to help him part his hair in the morning.
Bob took one look and realized the former barber had been parting the man's hair on the wrong side, which had been causing it to stick up. The problem was resolved with one appointment.
Abby
Mrs. Linklater pulls the lever on her polyester plaid LA Z BOY and launches herself into the upright and locked position. That's so she can take a deep breath of air before she shouts:
You've got to be sheeting me!!
Someone has actually asked an advice maven what side of his hair he should part it on? What's next? Which finger should he use to find boogers? Which hand should hold the tissue that wipes his butt? Which armpit should he check for B.O.?
No doubt, in an attempt to prevent future lawsuits, Abby can't just ignore Harry, who was dumb enough to sign his name and the town where he lives. She calls in a hair design consultant named Bob. This, in case you were wondering, is not a person who styles hair for a living. That would be a hair stylist. This is the person who stands behind the hair stylist and advises them where to put the part. Imagine, a person who gets to spend his entire professional career giving advice about which side of your head is the best side for splitting hairs.
Excuse me, is the Apocalypse here or is this just a rehearsal?
Any idiot knows that if you're lefthanded you part your hair on the left. If you're righthanded you part your hair on the right. Or, if you've got a cowlick, you can just comb your hair straight back and it will make its own part for you.
Sheesh, next time could you people wait until Mrs. Linklater is done napping before you insist on annoying her with this stuff?
Needless to say, the more things change, the more things stay the same. Usually it's the answers that drive Mrs. L to run screaming from the room. This time it was the world's stupidest QUESTION that caused Mrs. Linklater to spew milk through her nose and accidentally fart when she burped afterward. Not pretty.
To make matters worse, Abba Dabba's reply was almost as lame as the question. So sit back, relax, and watch Ms. Cranky Pants work her magic at no cost to you.
DEAR ABBY: For most of my life, I have parted my hair on the right. I am now being told that men should part their hair on the left. Is there a correct side for men?
HARRY W., MORRO BAY, CALIF.
DEAR HARRY: I relayed your question to my hair design consultant, Bob Cox. According to Bob, people naturally have a cowlick (or "whorl") on one side of their scalp from which the hair growth pattern emerges. (Some people have two, although one is usually stronger than the other.) This is what determines which way the hair will naturally fall when it is parted.
Bob went on to relate the story of a client who had recently been referred to him. The gentleman had been going to his former barber for 15 years, and for 15 years his hair had never been easy to manage. Over the last couple of years, the problem had become so bad that his wife had to help him part his hair in the morning.
Bob took one look and realized the former barber had been parting the man's hair on the wrong side, which had been causing it to stick up. The problem was resolved with one appointment.
Abby
Mrs. Linklater pulls the lever on her polyester plaid LA Z BOY and launches herself into the upright and locked position. That's so she can take a deep breath of air before she shouts:
You've got to be sheeting me!!
Someone has actually asked an advice maven what side of his hair he should part it on? What's next? Which finger should he use to find boogers? Which hand should hold the tissue that wipes his butt? Which armpit should he check for B.O.?
No doubt, in an attempt to prevent future lawsuits, Abby can't just ignore Harry, who was dumb enough to sign his name and the town where he lives. She calls in a hair design consultant named Bob. This, in case you were wondering, is not a person who styles hair for a living. That would be a hair stylist. This is the person who stands behind the hair stylist and advises them where to put the part. Imagine, a person who gets to spend his entire professional career giving advice about which side of your head is the best side for splitting hairs.
Excuse me, is the Apocalypse here or is this just a rehearsal?
Any idiot knows that if you're lefthanded you part your hair on the left. If you're righthanded you part your hair on the right. Or, if you've got a cowlick, you can just comb your hair straight back and it will make its own part for you.
Sheesh, next time could you people wait until Mrs. Linklater is done napping before you insist on annoying her with this stuff?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Back To Nature
I cannot believe the cops shot the mountain lion that was roaming around Chicago. According to DNA, it was a wild cat, not someone's pet that escaped. The Lincoln Park Zoo is located only two miles away from where it was killed. They have trained professionals there who know how to subdue wild animals. But no, the cops couldn't wait for them or animal control, for that matter. They claim that the mountain lion, cougar, puma -- same animal, different name -- leaped at them, leaving them no choice but to shoot.
Except at one point, a photographer got the animal on video running in a completely different direction away from the cops. It was also leaping six foot fences without much difficulty. So you get the feeling it was trying to get out of Dodge. Most mountain lions attack using stealth. If you catch them in the act they'll often run the other way. That's what Marlin Perkins told me the last time we were in Omaha shooting Wild Kingdom.
Meanwhile, everyone wants to know how a mountain lion got into the city. Easy. It walked. There's a line of forest preserves stretching from the Wisconsin border through the northern suburbs into the northwestern neighborhoods of Chicago. It's pretty much a straight shot through the woods, except for having to cross some streets along the way.
I have personal knowledge of some of it, because there's a bike trail that I used to ride that goes through miles and miles of forested land. Many times I almost wiped out because I'd come around the corner and there'd be some damn white tail deer right in front of me picking its butt. Or Bambi and its mother would jump out of the bushes smack dab in front of me, like a some kind of wildlife GOTCHA.
Now there's been a second mountain lion sighting in the lagoons, which are in the northern end of the forest preserves, about six short blocks from my stepmother's house. Two runners and a cop claim to be witnesses to this new sighting, which happened after the other cat was terminated. They're taking the reports seriously, mainly because a police officer confirmed it. For some reason you need a cop to see these things or they don't count. Like someone in suburban law enforcement would know a mountain lion from a tarp.
I remember when the now dead mountain lion was first sighted. Some soccer mom claimed she saw it in her back yard. Needless to say, nobody believed her. She kept saying she knew it wasn't a deer because it had a long tail. Zero credibility.
Lots of good eating around these parts I must say. Tasty joggers on the bike path along the edge of the lagoons. There's a boat ramp where delicious people launch their kayaks and canoes. Did I mention all the fat fishermen who're out there trying to catch the two inch bass? I've seen a few woodchucks, a lot of herons, even an occasional coyote traveling the roads, and it's hard to miss the distinctive smell of fresh skunk, or a rotting raccoon dead on the road. Oh, the menu includes kids and pets, too.
Even so, they better not kill this one.
Except at one point, a photographer got the animal on video running in a completely different direction away from the cops. It was also leaping six foot fences without much difficulty. So you get the feeling it was trying to get out of Dodge. Most mountain lions attack using stealth. If you catch them in the act they'll often run the other way. That's what Marlin Perkins told me the last time we were in Omaha shooting Wild Kingdom.
Meanwhile, everyone wants to know how a mountain lion got into the city. Easy. It walked. There's a line of forest preserves stretching from the Wisconsin border through the northern suburbs into the northwestern neighborhoods of Chicago. It's pretty much a straight shot through the woods, except for having to cross some streets along the way.
I have personal knowledge of some of it, because there's a bike trail that I used to ride that goes through miles and miles of forested land. Many times I almost wiped out because I'd come around the corner and there'd be some damn white tail deer right in front of me picking its butt. Or Bambi and its mother would jump out of the bushes smack dab in front of me, like a some kind of wildlife GOTCHA.
Now there's been a second mountain lion sighting in the lagoons, which are in the northern end of the forest preserves, about six short blocks from my stepmother's house. Two runners and a cop claim to be witnesses to this new sighting, which happened after the other cat was terminated. They're taking the reports seriously, mainly because a police officer confirmed it. For some reason you need a cop to see these things or they don't count. Like someone in suburban law enforcement would know a mountain lion from a tarp.
I remember when the now dead mountain lion was first sighted. Some soccer mom claimed she saw it in her back yard. Needless to say, nobody believed her. She kept saying she knew it wasn't a deer because it had a long tail. Zero credibility.
Lots of good eating around these parts I must say. Tasty joggers on the bike path along the edge of the lagoons. There's a boat ramp where delicious people launch their kayaks and canoes. Did I mention all the fat fishermen who're out there trying to catch the two inch bass? I've seen a few woodchucks, a lot of herons, even an occasional coyote traveling the roads, and it's hard to miss the distinctive smell of fresh skunk, or a rotting raccoon dead on the road. Oh, the menu includes kids and pets, too.
Even so, they better not kill this one.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Marathon Alert
One of my daughters ran her thirteenth marathon yesterday on the thirteenth of April. That's pretty cosmic if you ask me, said Mrs. Linklater, reflecting on the theme of her blog, which is up there on the top left of this page, just under the name of this blog, a choice she regrets, but that's another entry.
Mrs. L, a devoted mother, was able to follow her offspring from thousands of miles away on the internet. in real time. This is also cosmic, since it wasn't too long ago that the closest thing to real time communication [like say a letter from Vietnam] usually took two weeks.
The weather was alternately rainy and sunny with a few miles of hail thrown in. The race might as well have been in Chicago, where the weather has been terrible and worse most of the time lately. The race officials also gave the split times in kilometers, not miles. So she had to do the conversion math in her head while she was running. When Mrs. L was running, a math problem would have been out of the question -- her brain always went into shut down. Possibly because she played music loud enough to drown out the utter boredom of pounding the pavement.
Wonder if you can guess where she ran the marathon? That's not a Red Army hat that she's wearing at the finish, so, no, it wasn't Moscow.
Mrs. L, a devoted mother, was able to follow her offspring from thousands of miles away on the internet. in real time. This is also cosmic, since it wasn't too long ago that the closest thing to real time communication [like say a letter from Vietnam] usually took two weeks.
The weather was alternately rainy and sunny with a few miles of hail thrown in. The race might as well have been in Chicago, where the weather has been terrible and worse most of the time lately. The race officials also gave the split times in kilometers, not miles. So she had to do the conversion math in her head while she was running. When Mrs. L was running, a math problem would have been out of the question -- her brain always went into shut down. Possibly because she played music loud enough to drown out the utter boredom of pounding the pavement.
Wonder if you can guess where she ran the marathon? That's not a Red Army hat that she's wearing at the finish, so, no, it wasn't Moscow.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
One Last Rule
There are
so many rules for everything. From Rules of the Road to Rules for Parenting. From Rules for Relationships to Rules for How to Dress
for Success. I even wrote the Rutabaga Rules and got a Heartsong Award for my efforts.
Most rules are there to prevent unnecessary embarrassment. Or death. On the other hand, that old rule about not wearing white after Labor Day is pretty much toast. I remember feeling humiliated when I thought no one would notice my off white pumps in late September at a ladies' lunch and someone actually mentioned the "late" date to me. Yeah? Well, f**k your watercress sandwiches and the Volvo you rode in on.
Thankfully, other rules, like no sex on the first date, are no longer being enforced, Probably because everybody is more worried about their cell phones ringing in the middle of something.
I remember learning, way back in the early sixties, that there was a whole set of rules for how a woman should properly exit and enter a car. I even went to a class so we could practice. This was an important maneuver, because unlike Britney, a woman went to great effort not to reveal her panties to the guy who opened the car door for her. It never occurred to us that underwear was optional. Of course, when was the last time any guy who didn't want a tip opened a door for you?
Speaking of which -- underwear, not guys, Oprah has even had shows about the rules for choosing the correct bra. As a young flatchested eighth grader I recall that the idea was to buy at least a B cup and stuff it with stockings until you achieved the appearance of a round mound of rebound.
Over time and a couple of kids, I noticed that the mounds grew to an unflatteringly large size and unfortunate ICBM shape. Packed into a regulation brassiere they assumed the upright and locked position of a missile about to strike. So I opted for sports bras which, bless them, smushed my girls into youthful submission.
Now here's Oprah with someone on her show who has secret knowledge I never knew existed about the rules for loading your forty pound melons into a five pound bag.
I remember watching in fascination as all kinds of women in an endless variety of tat sizes stood around smiling in their underclothing on national television. One by one they let some "expert" fondle their breasts to point out what bra rules they were breaking. And nobody got arrested.
Which brings me to a rule which I have yet to find on any list. No doubt because it relates to women over fifty who live alone, an often overlooked demographic.
The rule is this -- don't forget to comb the back of your hair before you go out, you twit. I wish I had a picture of every woman I've seen who looks great from the front, but has a hole in her hairdo in the back. Not that it's EVER happened to me. I want to go up to her and ask whether she also eats her meals over the sink.
When you're young you never forget to comb the back of your hair before you go out. Because a young woman spends a lot of time looking in the mirror at her pretty self while holding a second mirror to reflect every single lovely side of her face and hairdo. I remember contorting myself into all kinds of positions to see each and every inch of my hair from every possible angle. For hours.
You don't do that so much when you're older. Especially when you live alone and nap a lot. First because there's no one to make fun of you for forgetting to comb the back of your hair. Second because your neck hurts. Third because your once and beautiful mane is getting thinner and thinner every day. Fourth because that view from the side is not pretty.
So you only look at the front. Because you really don't give a rip what you look like anymore as long as there's no crusty trail of drool down your cheek, no bagel poppy seeds in your teeth, no long hairs growing out of your chin, and your gray roots aren't showing yet.
Next time your over-fifty-live-alone mom walks in the house looking presentable from the front, turn her around to see if she remembered to do the back. You'll see what I mean.
Most rules are there to prevent unnecessary embarrassment. Or death. On the other hand, that old rule about not wearing white after Labor Day is pretty much toast. I remember feeling humiliated when I thought no one would notice my off white pumps in late September at a ladies' lunch and someone actually mentioned the "late" date to me. Yeah? Well, f**k your watercress sandwiches and the Volvo you rode in on.
Thankfully, other rules, like no sex on the first date, are no longer being enforced, Probably because everybody is more worried about their cell phones ringing in the middle of something.
I remember learning, way back in the early sixties, that there was a whole set of rules for how a woman should properly exit and enter a car. I even went to a class so we could practice. This was an important maneuver, because unlike Britney, a woman went to great effort not to reveal her panties to the guy who opened the car door for her. It never occurred to us that underwear was optional. Of course, when was the last time any guy who didn't want a tip opened a door for you?
Speaking of which -- underwear, not guys, Oprah has even had shows about the rules for choosing the correct bra. As a young flatchested eighth grader I recall that the idea was to buy at least a B cup and stuff it with stockings until you achieved the appearance of a round mound of rebound.
Over time and a couple of kids, I noticed that the mounds grew to an unflatteringly large size and unfortunate ICBM shape. Packed into a regulation brassiere they assumed the upright and locked position of a missile about to strike. So I opted for sports bras which, bless them, smushed my girls into youthful submission.
Now here's Oprah with someone on her show who has secret knowledge I never knew existed about the rules for loading your forty pound melons into a five pound bag.
I remember watching in fascination as all kinds of women in an endless variety of tat sizes stood around smiling in their underclothing on national television. One by one they let some "expert" fondle their breasts to point out what bra rules they were breaking. And nobody got arrested.
Which brings me to a rule which I have yet to find on any list. No doubt because it relates to women over fifty who live alone, an often overlooked demographic.
The rule is this -- don't forget to comb the back of your hair before you go out, you twit. I wish I had a picture of every woman I've seen who looks great from the front, but has a hole in her hairdo in the back. Not that it's EVER happened to me. I want to go up to her and ask whether she also eats her meals over the sink.
When you're young you never forget to comb the back of your hair before you go out. Because a young woman spends a lot of time looking in the mirror at her pretty self while holding a second mirror to reflect every single lovely side of her face and hairdo. I remember contorting myself into all kinds of positions to see each and every inch of my hair from every possible angle. For hours.
You don't do that so much when you're older. Especially when you live alone and nap a lot. First because there's no one to make fun of you for forgetting to comb the back of your hair. Second because your neck hurts. Third because your once and beautiful mane is getting thinner and thinner every day. Fourth because that view from the side is not pretty.
So you only look at the front. Because you really don't give a rip what you look like anymore as long as there's no crusty trail of drool down your cheek, no bagel poppy seeds in your teeth, no long hairs growing out of your chin, and your gray roots aren't showing yet.
Next time your over-fifty-live-alone mom walks in the house looking presentable from the front, turn her around to see if she remembered to do the back. You'll see what I mean.
Monday, April 7, 2008
I AM THIS CLOSE TO SOMEONE FAMOUS
For instance, I am two degrees from Ron Santo. Ron is a local famous guy here in Chicago. He's a former [and beloved] Cubs third baseman who now does the ball club's radio broadcasts with Pat Hughes on WGN.
Here's my important connection: Ron's wife is good friends with my ex-husband's wife. Ta-da.
I have been a mere one degree from Michael Keaton, the relatively famous Hollywood actor, two different times. I have a girlfriend in Montana who met him when they introduced themselves on a back country road, while they sat waiting in their trucks for a bunch of cows to cross from one side to the other. If I had been visiting her that day, I would have been stuck on the road and met Michael Keaton, too.
A year after that episode, Michael was in Chicago shooting a mini-series, which was headquartered in the same building where I was editing something. Only he always took the stairs and I always took the elevator, so I never saw him. I told a production assistant working on the film the story of how he met my girlfriend, complete with a description of the brand new red pick up truck he was driving. The PA passed my story along during a break in shooting. Instead of extending me an invite to lunch or a visit to his ranch outside Bozeman, Keaton told the PA to tell me the red truck was toast. These days he was driving a new black pick up. There's also a third time I was only one degree from Michael Keaton. He asked a cousin of mine to write a screenplay for him. That one ended badly. So I won't count it .
I used to play tennis with a woman whose grandfather was one of the two guys who founded Alcoholics Anonymous. He's not famous, but AA is.
My stepmother went to high school with Donald Rumsfeld. Then she went to college with General Norman Schwartzkopf's older sister. He's famous for the First Gulf War. Back in their college days his sister and my stepmom called him "Normie."
I am this close to Oprah. An athletic little boy who lived next door to us when my kids were young became a football star at my high school. He went on to play for Stanford. After reconnecting with him recently about a football video, I got to meet his three kids and his wife, who turns out to be one of Oprah's producers.
Isn't this riveting? Watch out, there may be more.
Here's my important connection: Ron's wife is good friends with my ex-husband's wife. Ta-da.
I have been a mere one degree from Michael Keaton, the relatively famous Hollywood actor, two different times. I have a girlfriend in Montana who met him when they introduced themselves on a back country road, while they sat waiting in their trucks for a bunch of cows to cross from one side to the other. If I had been visiting her that day, I would have been stuck on the road and met Michael Keaton, too.
A year after that episode, Michael was in Chicago shooting a mini-series, which was headquartered in the same building where I was editing something. Only he always took the stairs and I always took the elevator, so I never saw him. I told a production assistant working on the film the story of how he met my girlfriend, complete with a description of the brand new red pick up truck he was driving. The PA passed my story along during a break in shooting. Instead of extending me an invite to lunch or a visit to his ranch outside Bozeman, Keaton told the PA to tell me the red truck was toast. These days he was driving a new black pick up. There's also a third time I was only one degree from Michael Keaton. He asked a cousin of mine to write a screenplay for him. That one ended badly. So I won't count it .
I used to play tennis with a woman whose grandfather was one of the two guys who founded Alcoholics Anonymous. He's not famous, but AA is.
My stepmother went to high school with Donald Rumsfeld. Then she went to college with General Norman Schwartzkopf's older sister. He's famous for the First Gulf War. Back in their college days his sister and my stepmom called him "Normie."
I am this close to Oprah. An athletic little boy who lived next door to us when my kids were young became a football star at my high school. He went on to play for Stanford. After reconnecting with him recently about a football video, I got to meet his three kids and his wife, who turns out to be one of Oprah's producers.
Isn't this riveting? Watch out, there may be more.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
The Pea Soup Olympics
I don't get it. How did Beijing get the 2008 Summer Olympics?
Joe Torre was just quoted in Sports Illustrated as saying you can cut the pollution in that city with a knife. Apparently the party leaders have shut down most of the factories, but the cars are still spewing. Plus they continue building hotels for the tourists and housing for the athletes. So instead of improving air quality, it's actually getting worse.
Recently there's been a great deal of concern about when and where to run long events like the marathon and cycling. Because taking a breath of air is like sucking a sewer pipe.
But why is it suddenly a problem now? Why wasn't it a problem back when the Olympic committee was touring the world looking for venues. Didn't anybody wonder why the sky was yellow? And you could chew the air?
China has been polluted forever. This isn't new news. Was the Olympic committee holding its breath when they toured the city ten years ago? Or were the Chinese holding out their wallets?
What the frigging fluck is going on?
FROM BBC SPORT online:
"Beijing's filthy air and clogged traffic are known to have worried Beijing organizers and the IOC for some time. . ."
My feeling is go ahead and have the opening ceremonies in Beijing. Then move all the athletic events to Japan. Nobody will notice the difference.
Except for the dogs.
Joe Torre was just quoted in Sports Illustrated as saying you can cut the pollution in that city with a knife. Apparently the party leaders have shut down most of the factories, but the cars are still spewing. Plus they continue building hotels for the tourists and housing for the athletes. So instead of improving air quality, it's actually getting worse.
Recently there's been a great deal of concern about when and where to run long events like the marathon and cycling. Because taking a breath of air is like sucking a sewer pipe.
But why is it suddenly a problem now? Why wasn't it a problem back when the Olympic committee was touring the world looking for venues. Didn't anybody wonder why the sky was yellow? And you could chew the air?
China has been polluted forever. This isn't new news. Was the Olympic committee holding its breath when they toured the city ten years ago? Or were the Chinese holding out their wallets?
What the frigging fluck is going on?
FROM BBC SPORT online:
"Beijing's filthy air and clogged traffic are known to have worried Beijing organizers and the IOC for some time. . ."
My feeling is go ahead and have the opening ceremonies in Beijing. Then move all the athletic events to Japan. Nobody will notice the difference.
Except for the dogs.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Autobiography by Jemma Leech [when she was 8]
I am Jemma and I am immortal!
Music is my life and my life is music. My heartbeat is written on a stave, with crescendos and diminuendos, tacit bars and heart-stopping glissandos. But my breath is the libretto, with such glorious poetry and anarchic rhyme that I can't make sense of it at all.
My seminal moment came in the guise of a very talented pair of artists Carlo Rizzi and John Caird whose production of Verdi's Don Carlos brought my life to a resounding halt last September. It was like my very existence had been awaiting that meeting and that opera. In one afternoon they had shown me the meaning of life! All the musical forces came together to create an awesome experience just for me.
Music transports me to the court of King Philip, an alley in Verona or the farthest reaches of the universe before returning me to Victorian London, wartime France or my homeland today. Even in the dark of the night my music shines bright and fills the room with light and radiance. No sound is heard but music is blaring from my mind into the void. Daytime can be tiresome with its noisy light disrupting my mind's symphonic pleasures. If I were in St David's Hall I couldn't hear more beautiful music.
Sometimes I lie awake scratching out notes on parchment which only I will ever read or hear. My concerto for bassoon is multi-award winning and the critics raved about my Symphony in G. Perhaps only time will tell whether my Mozartian productivity is kept for posterity or binned by a future archivist. But then, since I am the only judge and jury in my mind, it is probably a foregone conclusion (though not necessarily!).
Written words are for me the glue which keeps my existence held fast in a semblance of stability. Without words, it would all come crashing round my ears, turning bright sunshine into darkest night. Poetry fills my soul with delightful hues of life's momentary escapes into bliss, and torment.
Language is my paint and my keyboard is my brush. With them I paint pictures of life's more interesting times and scenic views of the future. But what is my future?
Many people can't imagine how there could be a brain in this body. They see a broken child like a broken toy, simpler to dispose of than use for the few things it can still do. Some people are happy to be nice to the body assuming that a baby's mind must lie within. Few people suspect a city of people lies inside my fractured casing, with artists, musicians, politicians, teachers, priests and spacemen all vying with each other for airtime on Jemma FM.
How can you, they say in hushed tones, read, write and think like normal people do? Surely that mother of yours is just making it up and should stop telling fibs.
Well, d'you know? I do have a brain and I do have a mind — and the imagination of Dahl, the poetry of Keats, the drama of Shakespeare, the music of Verdi and the passion of them all in one. My body may be broken, but my operas are premiering and my films are winning Oscars every night. Well, in my mind they are anyway!
Carlo and John could see past the wheelchair; they could see into my spirit and gave me permission to try whatever I wanted to, however much people derided my attempts.
I cannot promise to change the world, but perhaps my music and my poetry will. Someday.
I couldn't contain myself, so I posted Jemma's autobiography tonight instead of tomorrow. This essay also won an award. Jemma's family came to the US so her father could work with the opera company in Houston. Along with her glorious writing, she also composes music in her head, which only she can hear. But her teachers and family are trying to devise a way for her to put her musical thoughts into sounds so we can all hear them. I can't wait. Read the complete article by Allen Turner that ran in the Houston Chronicle here:
Jemma Leech Will Take Your Breath Away
A Hawarden Grove Christmas
By Jemma Leech
By Jemma Leech
I remember in London the winters were warm and wet. No snow or ice,
just rainy gumboot-puddled walks in Brockwell Park, while the
summer-packed paddling pool filled of its own accord with rainwater,
autumn leaves and rainbows of crisp bags.
We disappeared in
the secret garden underneath palisades of sleeping creeping clematis
and wisteria, swapping the dry dark with the wet light as we trailed
the paving maze to the fishpond at its heart.
Blackbirds
waded in patches of newly dug earth, taking worms from the mud as an
avocet might from a turning tide-bare beach. A robin called to me from
the crumbling wall, saying 'spring will be here soon, believe me,
believe me.' His red chest puffed out with pride as he sang me a song
of love and fidelity. Flattery became him as I cried at his song, and
he flew off knowing I'd believed in his truth. From the far end of the
garden, I heard him begin his flirtation again with another open heart.
From the top of the hill in the park we had watched fireworks
break out all across the city that Fifth of November, as if in domino
from common to common. But on that Christmas Day the mist had come
down, the park was an island and we were cut off from the mass of
humanity beyond the mist. It was just me, my brother and sister, and
our weary parents inhaling the fog like perfume on a cloud of silage
steam grateful for the relief it brought from the stench of London.
That mist-bound land was our kingdom that day, and I was its princess,
adorned with a crown of diamond drips and drops, soon dried by the
warmth of our terraced palace on Hawarden Grove.
Jemma Leech is a ten year old girl from Wales via London, who moved to Houston with her family. She wrote this essay for a contest and won, beating 1600 other kids for the grand prize.
Even more amazing is that Jemma has cerebral palsy and writes on a computer with a xylophone stick.
Tomorrow I'll post her autobiography, written when she was only eight.
I was feeling kind of cheated out of life today. Until I saw this little girl with her mom on the news tonight. She is the embodiment of hope. I haven't stopped smiling since I started reading about her.
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