Mrs. Linklater's Guide to the Universe

The Red and The Black

2012-01-25T19:34:00.000-06:00

Time to reload the uniform karma machine for the Super Bowl.
To review the rules for those of you not familiar with Mrs. Linklater's tendency to make broad sweeping generalizations -- red or black uniforms win the uniform mojo and therefore the game. More times than not.
All white is almost always a dead bang loser uniform and must be avoided at all costs. However, even if you get stuck with the white travel jersey -- figure out a way to get some red or black mojo working. Accessorize!!! Add a little silver or gold. What do you think helmets, shoes, socks, and wristbands are for!
Unless you're playing against a green uniform. Then white can win. But I mean GREEN green, not almost black like Green Bay wore against Pittsburgh last year. Adding black to the green might have been the best move of the franchise. Compare their almost black Super Bowl jerseys to their uniforms from back in the day -- those Al Gore gag me green and banana yellow outfits. Okay, now they're charming throwback colors. I still rest my case.
Pittsburgh threw all their chances away for last year's SB title from the moment they stepped on the field. They had a chance to enjoy some monster mojo with their uniforms -- gold and black can generate awesome fear and loathing -- but no-o-o-o-o! They showed up wearing yellow pants with their white jerseys. I mean, really?!! You couldn't wear black pants? With black on black helmets. Maybe gold and black shoes. You gotta do SOMETHING people!! Losers.
Meanwhile, let's recap the 2012 Division Championships last weekend. San Francisco showed up in their red jerseys against the Giants. Let me remind you once again that red and black uniforms win more games than any other colors. Sports Illustrated said that. Did a study. No, I don't have the article. I'm not a journalist. I'm just opinionated.
In fact, starting with the wild card games, seven out of eight teams in red or black won their games this year. Or, to phrase it another way -- all the home teams won. Perhaps that was because all the home teams had serious uniform mojo. Except one.
The 49ers' red jerseys should have meant an easy trip to the next level. But they threw away their chances to win the battle of the game day outfits, when they came out looking pretty much the same as they did all season. Gotta freshen up the look for a big gig, dontcha know. Can't rest on your laurels even when you're the home team. A little silver or gold, something ferocious to make your helmets worth talking about. [Think Oregon]. But no, you got cocky and settled for same ol' same ol'. Score SF less than zero for not even attempting to generate some style point mojo with a little flash.
The Giants, for their part, were smart enough not to wear all white uniforms, which would have been the kiss o' death. The fickle finger of failure. It was bad enough they had to deal with traveling team white jerseys. Since SF didn't make much effort and New York avoided looking like the losers they should have been, Mrs. Linklater has decided [after the fact, when she can do no wrong] that there was no winner of the NFC divisional uniform mojo. She calls it a tie.
Often when that happens, the game is up for grabs. Home team advantage or not.
And that's the way it was. In the end, nobody won the game. San Francisco lost it. Blame it on the mojo. Or lack thereof.
Before that game, Mrs. L was having brunch at a fancy bistro with a carved wood bar, but still had a chance to watch the start of the Ravens/Patriots' game, because they had a tasteful flat screen for patrons who like football with their eggs benedict. She immediately noticed that the Ravens' scored some serious uniform mojo when they came out on the field, smothered in so much black you almost didn't notice their jerseys were white. She was ready to anoint them winners of the game's uniform mojo -- until New England stepped on the field.
The Patriots' black jerseys beat New York's white jerseys. Okay, ALMOST black jerseys. Like Green Bay, New England's blue is way blacker than the primary color it used to be. As soon as I saw Tom Brady in his so-close-you-could-call-it-black-jersey, I called the uniforms a draw. Advantage -- no one. Rats. I knew then the Ravens would lose.
Interesting to note that neither game had a winner as much as both games were lost.
The Super Bowl is in Indianapolis. I will pick the winner based on uniform mojo. But I can't make the call until they run on the field. Both teams have almost the same colors. Basically red and blue. A little white. Some silver. I figure whoever works out a way to get the most black into their scheme will win the game. Even though both have red as one of their colors.
Did I mention, when red plays black, black wins?

Netflix Should Just Go Out of Business

2012-01-21T16:35:00.003-06:00

Dear Netflix:
I signed up for your service when it was $7.99 for streaming AND you'd mail me one DVD at a time. What's not to like about that deal?
I stayed with you, unlike 800,000 others, after you doubled the price to $7.99 for streaming and $7.99 for one DVD by mail at a time.[Clearly you hadn't read about the New Coke fiasco before starting Quikster.]
However, after a couple of months of watching pixilated and low res crap on my MacBookPro [in case you think I have a bad player], I realized that you didn't have any decent movies to watch on streaming video, besides the fact that you suck at streaming, so I dropped that service.
At the same time, for some reason, I decided to increase my DVD service with you to two at a time for $11.99 a month. What was I thinking?
Because, after checking my account, more than 50% of the DVDs I get mailed from you are too damaged to watch. Unless I don't mind skipping key scenes, or jumping three chapters at once.
And what's with telling me to play your piece of shit DVD on another player when it's damaged? Or clean it up myself? Seriously. It doesn't matter. Nothing's going to make those beat up disks you keep sending to my house suddenly work.
In addition, by the time you send me a replacement, up to a week has passed. This makes your $11.99 two-fer mail service a lot more expensive than it's worth.
Plus, for some reason Netflix users also are blocked from watching any of the "Bonus Features" unless we are willing to go out and buy the DVD. Seriously, who came up with that little marketing ploy? Like I'm going to buy the DVD of a movie I have chosen to rent, just for the Bonus Features. If I won't pay to see a movie in the theaters, why should I pay through the nose to buy the DVD to see the Bonus Features? Don't get me wrong. I own lots of flicks. And I love the Bonus Features, but not enough to pay full retail, which is more than double the cost of going to a movie theater. Just so I can watch the extras a total of one damn time.
So, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to cancel you as of February. Sorry, but my public library is way cheaper than you are, plus their DVDs don't get shipped to me unplayable, damaged from abuse, or smashed in the mail. And I can watch the bonus features anytime I want.
Do you understand the concept of service? Or do you think we won't notice that you're just trying to sock away the money?
Here's something you have yet to grasp -- if there is a problem with a DVD, my library, unlike you, will fix it, so the next person, i.e., me, doesn't get a damaged disk. In fact, they have invested in a machine that fixes DVDs so they are like new. Which begs the question -- are you just too cheap to invest in keeping your inventory in good shape?
Also, at my library, which is less than a mile away, I can get an entire season of say, MAD MEN, all at once, not one disk at a time like your "service." In fact, this month, every single TV series is FREE. That's four to six disks. Usually the whole series costs a buck a week. And you can renew it for another week for another buck. Except on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, when you can get not one, but TWO series for a buck. If I want, I can rent up to ten complete seasons or movies at a time. For $10. Or, if you do the math, only $5 on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. $11.99 for only 6-8 DVDs without bonus features is starting to sound extravagant.
I'm sure there was a time when you offered a decent product for a fair price. Unfortunately, it's becoming obvious that your time has passed.
In the end, it probably wasn't such a good idea to double your prices, when it turns out the quality of your product is only half as good as it should be. Or ever was.

Buh-bye.

The Cat People of PetSmart

2012-01-15T15:55:00.004-06:00

There is a glass enclosed room at our local PetSmart, where there are used kitties of all makes and models stacked in cages for your selection. Several times a day there's a trained, professional volunteer whose job it is to let them out of their cages so they can climb on the furniture and strike a pose on the carpeted feline jungle gyms.
Potential cat owners can come into the inner sanctum to enjoy some up close and personal kootchie-coo time with this colorful crew of tabbies, calicos, long hairs, short hairs, and the occasional fancy breed. Many, if not most of these kitties have been saved from euthanasia in the proverbial nick of time. This up close and personal visitation is all part of the auditioning process, to help these furry creatures earn a second chance to barf up their hairballs, pee on the carpet, and leave cement hockey pucks in a fresh batch of kitty litter at some new owner's home.

Visiting this cat room is kind of like strolling through the red light district in Amsterdam. Except at $150 and up, the felines are more expensive. I have the distinct impression that the animals have been provided by local rescue groups, based on the name atop the extensive questionnaire one has to fill out. It sure isn't PetSmart.
Two pages of information are required. Besides your job contacts, along with the number of people and other pets in your household, the cars you drive, and your salary last year, you are required to submit an admission of guilt, if and when, you've ever had to give up any of your previous furballs of love. Like say, if she died. Better have a good reason.
Plus, there's an age limit. That's right. People over 75 are considered too old. No doubt this is just another conspiracy to rid the world of one of our nation's most important resources -- the neighborhood cat lady, a job which we all know requires the services of an elderly cat person, preferably a woman. She is not to be confused with a member of the Cat People, a militant feminist group who post on facebook, march against euthanasia, and remain dedicated to keeping you from adopting a cat at all costs from PetSmart. Not since PETA started throwing blood on fur coats has there been a more self righteous bunch of beyotches so determined to keep cats imprisoned in cages while they prevent anyone from taking them home.
Prospective owners endure the rigamarole of filling out "the forms" just to qualify to be considered for their "vetting" process. That's when the Cat People really start to give you a hard time. PetSmart, like most national chains, probably doesn't give-a-sh*t who gets a cat, as long as papers have been signed and money has been paid. It's these devoted volunteer Cat People from the rescue groups who make the ordeal such a pain in the ass.

And therein lies the problem. When -- and most importantly WHY -- did cats get so hard to own? Whatever happened to the days of getting a free kitten from someone in the neighborhood whose pet got knocked up by a traveling tom? The father of the kittens was usually long gone, leaving little evidence of his transgression, save for some unusual color variations. Where are the old ladies you could count on to take in every stray so no cat was left behind? Not at PetSmart, I can assure you.
Yesterday a relative of mine got a phone call from one of the PetSmart Cat People. They had a cat for her. The last time they had a cat for her she only qualified for a senior cat [7 or 8 years old] because she is an "older" woman. Older than I am, as a matter of fact. Unfortunately, she had to return the cat, because he didn't pass its physical when she had it checked out by her vet. You would think that PetSmart would do that beforehand, but apparently not.
The poor thing had diabetes. This time my deserving relative was supposed to get a younger, healthier cat. Yay! While she filled out the paperwork, I spent time babysitting a couple of dogs for one of the volunteers. I kept them entertained by walking them around the store. And talking babytalk to them. I was a regular Barbara Woodhouse.
An hour passed and I noticed the cat carrier was still sitting on the table without a cat inside. I looked through the windows and saw four Cat People talking with my family member. The cat she was supposed to adopt was lounging around on the jungle gym, unperturbed. Finally, someone came out, took the dog I was tending and invited me inside the cat sanctuary to join their discussion.
For some reason, they were talking about the cat that my relative had returned months ago, because it had diabetes. Apparently someone else had been chosen to get the cat. Only she decided to get a divorce and gave the cat to a friend. This is AGAINST THE RULES!! Apparently the cat has now disappeared and the Cat People are trying to get it back.
If you're like me, at this point, you're wondering, WTF does this have to do with MY family. Isn't this a problem for the Cat People to take care of? Just give us -- sorry SELL US -- the new cat and we'll be out of here.
But things didn't happen that way. After another half hour of discussion about how to get the diabetic cat back -- I finally said, "You know, that cat is dead. If the people won't tell you where it is and how to get it back, it's gone." Since my family has attorneys they wanted one of them to write a letter to the woman and make her bring the cat back.
Because I wasn't the one adopting, I didn't scream, "Okay, so you'll get a letter! Meanwhile! Do we get to take the new cat you promised or not?" Apparently the answer was no, because we left with an empty carrier. I'm still flabbergasted, since THEY CALLED US!
The B.S. Factor of that little episode -- for those of you keeping track -- is close to 94. It would be higher, except I didn't mind playing with the dogs.

Snowy Lagoons in January

2012-01-15T14:17:00.001-06:00

This shot above was easy. The one below I didn't get, because the dog came walking by so fast I only got two shots and they were both just a little off.

Photography 'r Us

2012-01-09T15:50:00.001-06:00

This is one of about forty photos I took with my NEW [gently driven] Nike D200

on Saturday at dusk. I posted one of the horizontal versions on my facebook

page and used another one for my desktop [see sidebar], but this vertical one

is my favorite, so it goes here. Rather nicely, I think. Un-retouched, by the way.

Got Me A New Camera

2012-01-08T18:08:00.001-06:00

Thanks to one of my brothers, I'm the proud owner of his gently used Nikon D-200 and the motor to drive it [with two industrial strength batteries]. I also inherited his Nikon D-100 a while back. I guess that makes me about as digital as a person can get without being a robot.

Thanks to having a camera in their faces ever since birth, his kids are very easy to take pictures of. They're willing to stop what they're doing and smile at the goofy adult who is snapping shots. And even do it again when you mess up. Even nicer, they always have real smiles, not those bizarre clown faces that some kids make.

So muchas gracias to Annie, Chris, and Nick for letting me take their photos morning, noon, and night during my week with your family on the Outer Banks. I'll even let you win at Crazy Eights next time. . .

For the uninitiated, the Outer Banks is not a group of banks with belly buttons that protrude out of their stomachs. That's an Outie. Or a car -- that's an Audi. It's a spit of land as far east as you can get in North Carolina. Far out from the rest of the state. Thus Outer. As in Mongolia, except it's North Carolina.

I also think it's pretty obvious that none of these photos has been digitally enhanced. All of them could be worked on, but part of me hates messing with reality. Or my camera's version of it. One of the reasons I miss film is that you could get some awesome results in days gone by without having to resort to artificial tweaking. Fujicolor 800 was my all time favorite film to use before it was downgraded to blech. Its colors were so vibrant they looked lit from behind. I like the Kodak Portra 160, even though it costs an arm and a leg. In olden days, Kodak anything was always reliable, but, except for Ektachrome, tended to go a little too warm for my taste. But now, anything goes. And Photoshop rules.

In the Photo Booth Andy Warhol Style

2012-01-04T19:13:00.000-06:00

In the Photo Booth with the Niece and Nephews Part Two

2012-01-04T19:09:00.002-06:00

In the Photo Booth with the Niece and Nephews Part One

2012-01-04T19:07:00.004-06:00

Baby You Can Drive My Car

2012-01-03T18:02:00.000-06:00

A family friend has a favorite driver she likes to use to take her to the airport. His name is Leonid. He's a middle-aged Russian, who listens to a Russian radio station while he drives. She likes him so much, I was invited to join her in his van to catch my flight and save myself a penny or two as her guest. For that I was very grateful. Thank you very much.
The problem for me is that he doesn't seem to drive a van that belongs to a cab company. First of all, it's entirely too clean. Secondly, it isn't one of those vehicles plastered with company logos and phone numbers all over it.
He drives a metallic gold family van like yours or mine, assuming I had one. His is a lot like the new one my brother and sister-in-law recently bought, just not as tricked out for little kids.
I also noticed that he didn't get calls from a dispatcher on a two-way radio either. Since he doesn't have a two-way radio. Or a dispatcher. My friend said that the number you call to schedule him is his cell phone. So there's no fifty-year-old gum-chewing babe with a cigarette voice waiting to take your order. Or, like some companies, a guy named Jumar in India, who's sending out cars from 5000 miles away.
The van isn't a limo van either, with a distinctive blue license plate that says "livery." It has an ordinary, run-of-the-mill plate, like anybody else driving carpool on your block.
I noticed that Leonid's wheels also don't have a village sticker on the windshield like the rest of us living in the suburbs have to have. Or don't have, depending on what you think you can get away with.
In addition, when he comes to the airport to pick you up, he wants you to meet him at door A, B, or C, out in the third lane, the one reserved for use by family members and other civilians, so the cops have easy pickin's, when you've been sitting around too long. Apparently Leonid never waits at door G or uses the middle lane like all the other cab/limo services are required to do at O'Hare.
I began to wonder whether he's even got a chauffeurs' license. To my chagrin, it turns out a driver doesn't have to have one to haul people in the suburbs. Only for the city. Okay, then, what about insurance in case there's an accident? Hmmmm. Got me.
The good news is that Leonid only charges about half the price of the other services, which naturally makes him an attractive financial option in these belt-tightening times.

I do know that when we landed back in town today, expecting him to pick us up at the curb by door B, he was a no-show. Arrangements had been made by my friend when he dropped us off several days ago. She has said she never has to call him to confirm, because he makes such a big deal out of writing the flight arrival info in his little schedule book so he won't forget. But something happened. Because he never got there.

Instead we called another cab service and got a ride home in a van with all the hallmarks of a legitimate cab service. First, we were provided with an interior that was just one date shy of a gang bang. Additionally, I was gratified to notice that the exterior was reassuringly covered with a dent or two, along with the smarmy colors and lettering of a genuine cab company. But the piece de resistance was the driver himself, who spoke with an accent that rendered him nearly impossible to understand, no matter how many times he repeated himself. And there was more. Yes, he had a two way radio, but, no, we couldn't use a charge card, because his card reader was broken, probably during the first Gulf War. Fortunately, we had cash. I know that by the time we got to the tollway, my comfort level was at an all-time high.
Naturally, being an entrepreneurial sort, he was hoping to get future business from one or both of us, but I felt I had to disabuse him of that notion. "Why should we hire a dirty van with a card reader doesn't work?" I asked. He took the time to explain why, but, as much as I might have wanted to consider his many valid reasons, I have no idea what he said.
Meanwhile, I can't wait to hear what happened to our man from Russia, Leonid.

A New Baby And An Old Story

2011-12-31T11:27:00.003-06:00

I have a brand spanking new niece, born December 30th, with a comforting epidural for her mom and surprisingly little drama, except for a brief, false start a few days ago. From her healthy pink complexion and pissed off expression, she looks like she rated a nice, high APGAR score to me. All of which, naturally, reminded ME of ME -- that is, what it was like when I had MY babies. [NOTE TO READERS: This is Mrs. Linklater's blog, so she tends to write about herself].
My children were born in the seventies, during the return to natural childbirth. The "Let's hold hands and do Lamaze" craze. In the beginning, Lamaze was a hippy dippy birthing concept to a lot of the docs and nurses. They often had no idea what we "enlightened" mothers were doing, staring at a spot on the wall, rubbing our abdomens in a circular motion, breathing in a yoga fashion, and relaxing our way through the contractions.
Generally, women in labor haven't been allowed to eat, but for my second child, they let me suck on sour lollipops and ice chips. I arrived so prepared. I even had labor crib sheets for reference, so I could be sure when I had moved onto another phase of the process. Yay! I feel like throwing up! I must be in transition!
Shortly after getting to the hospital, I remember sitting on the side of the bed, referring to my notes, when a resident came in the room to do an initial exam -- heart, lungs, reflexes, etc. He took one look at my lollipops and cheat sheets and started laughing at me. I tried to smile at his amusement, but, based on his expression, I think it came out sounding more like the girl in The Exorcist, just before she spewed green vomit all over everything. "Never laugh at a woman in labor," I warned him, causing his future in medicine to flash before his eyes, thus silencing his giggles, no doubt so I wouldn't stab him.
Delivering that second baby was a piece of cake. Unfortunately, my first baby got stuck coming out face first. Usually a crown of hair announces a baby's imminent arrival. Hence the term, "the baby is crowning" which basically means head first. Arriving face first can make your baby look like she did a belly flop at 150 MPH from a high dive. When she finally squeezed out with a sudden burst after two+ hours of pushing, she looked like she had been on spring break -- her face bright red like a ferocious sunburn, her eyes practically swollen shut, and her cheeks the size of red balloons. How bad was it? The hospital photographers couldn't bring themselves to take her picture for two days.
But that was just for starters. Soon after birth, she became slightly jaundiced, not an uncommon occurrence in newborns, usually solved with phototherapy. Sometimes, however, more intervention is needed. Especially in cases where the jaundice occurs because the mother is RH negative and her baby is RH positive, which is called RH incompatibility. RH Incompatibility requires a RhoGAM shot for the mom or even a transfusion for the baby in cases of severe jaundice.
On the other hand, the converse isn't true. An RH positive mother who has an RH negative baby doesn't have incompatibility problems. Read a good explanation of all of it HERE. And remember the difference.
On my first slow shuffle to see my daughter in the nursery -- did I mention pushing for two hours -- I noticed a card on the side of her little crib that listed our blood types. Oh, look, she's A+ just like me, I said to myself. But wait, the card also says, incorrectly, that I'm O-. They had our blood types reversed. I realized that if I didn't sound the alarm, there was a chance they could decide there was an RH incompatibility problem and possibly transfuse my daughter with the wrong blood, which could kill her.
So I reported this error to the nurses. And they handled their mistake the way many people who make mistakes do -- they blamed me.
While I was on the phone, the head nurse, a matron with the size and girth of a warden in a maximum security prison, darkened my doorway and virtually shouted at me from across the room, "Have you ever had an abortion?"
The answer was no. But the question was inappropriate and irrelevant on multiple levels.
First, I was RH positive, NOT RH negative. So even if I'd had an earlier pregnancy/abortion/miscarriage with an O- fetus, there wouldn't be any antibody issues in my blood or my baby's blood TO CAUSE THE MISTAKE THEY MADE. Did she miss the day they taught genetics?
Second, having a medical procedure is confidential, especially considering that back then, abortions were illegal. So don't be asking a question of such a personal nature when I'M ON THE PHONE!!
Naturally, I pointed out the error of her ways, telling her that it was clear they had made the mistake all on their own by switching our blood types -- a travesty which could have killed my baby, you stupid woman. Yeah, I basically called her an idiot. This prompted a call shortly thereafter from my doctor, who tried to smooth things over. Did I know that many women had spontaneous abortions, a perfectly natural occurrence?
Except she didn't say spontaneous, doc. Plus, it wouldn't have mattered if I'd had an abortion, spontaneous or not. Did YOU miss that day in genetics, too? I'm RH POSITIVE, not negative.
How about an apology for switching our blood types? And a thank you for discovering YOUR MISTAKE before something terrible happened to my baby?

It's been forty years. I'm still waiting.

Menu de Noel

2011-12-28T15:17:00.002-06:00

Since my brother has been cooking for me during the holidays, I, and others, have so far enjoyed:
• two batches of homemade chocolate chip cookies the size of my head
• one batch of homemade split pea soup in homemade pork broth [two pigs' knuckles boiled 24 hours with carrots, celery, onion, parsley, garlic]
• a pork tenderloin with his signature cranberry-blackberry reduction
• spelt with eggplant and sauteed button mushrooms [whatever spelt is]
• apple pie from a German bakery
• rack of lamb, marinated in lemon and rosemary
• wild rice
• a salad tossed with homemade lemon, tarragon vinegar and olive oil dressing
• prime rib with bearnaise sauce
• mashed potatoes
• broccoli
• braised brussels sprouts with crispy pancetta
• quinoa with black-eyed peas
• a bouche de noel from the local patisserie
• spectacular crepes filled with chocolate ganache one day
• spectacular crepes florentine with boucheron cheese the next
• honey crisp apples
• red wines plus Moet de Chandon Nectar Imperial champagne
• Pellegrino for me
• cheese and crackers that included langres, epoisse, stilton, plus a pate de compagne, and Italian sausage made with barolo wine
• vanilla ice cream with an eggnog ganache
• Zantac

He wants to go out for dinner tonight. I can't imagine why.

Road Trip

2011-12-27T06:56:00.001-06:00

We're in that down time between Christmas and New Year's, when you may be driving WITH relatives or TO relatives, during the ramp up for the next event.
The subject matter that comes up during drives like these is not unlike the flinging of dung against a wall. You never know what's going to stick. In between the discussions about where to stop for lunch with seven people, three of them kids [from Taco Bell, a definite NO, shouted from the way back, to Cracker Barrel, a 1/2 hour wait, to McDonald's, only if we have to, to IHOP, where we ended up], we talked about earthshaking matters such as brown eggs versus white eggs.
As a repository of information I cannot recall learning, I informed those present that I was pretty sure brown eggs were from red hens, often Rhode island Reds, and white eggs are from white hens, which must have a brand name, but I didn't know what it was. Otherwise no difference. Brown eggs tend to be slightly larger because the hens are slightly larger. I discovered there are many types of white hens which lay different sizes of white eggs. And then there are Martha Stewart's eggs, which are blue.
We had access to the internet in the car, but didn't google more information until we got to our destination and discovered that brown eggs may cost more, not because they're fresher or better tasting, but because bigger hens cost more to feed. My sister-in-law is convinced that the brown eggs she gets from the farmer's market are indeed fresher than the whites. I said chances are they're all several weeks old by the time no matter where she buys them.
In fact, I'm convinced that unless you can watch a farmer walk into the barn where the chickens are kept and you can see him actually pick the eggs out of the nests, you have no idea how fresh they are. I can confirm that THOSE eggs, with their firm, not watery, whites, and bright yellow yolks have a noticeably different taste than store bought. Brown or white. But my sister-n-law thinks that brown ones are ALWAYS better, fresher, more natural, more organic, etc., than white ones will ever be. I said the perception of quality was all a marketing ploy to disguise the reason for the higher price. The nutrition and taste of both colors are the exactly the same. So, we'll just agree to disagree. Even though she has the credibility of being an attorney and a partner in a law firm. But then again, I'm Mrs. Linklater.
Meanwhile, back in the car, we learned via facebook for iPhone that another sister-in-law was having contractions a thousand miles away. It's her first baby and the doctor said to wait until they were 60 to 90 seconds long and five minutes apart before taking things seriously. Friday is the actual due date. Meanwhile, mother-to-be and hubba bubba were going to go for a walk to Starbuck's. I was asking unanswerable questions like, how effaced and dilated is she? How far apart are the contractions NOW, not how far apart do they have to be? As with most first babies, the contractions stopped.
As the drive continued, other facebook people weighed in with suggestions that eating spicy food could help speed things up. It occurred to me that a sudden drop in barometric pressure is also a useful tool to get the baby going. So she should find a hurricane and go sit in it. Not to mention the power of drinking castor oil, a tasty suggestion I made including a link to a mommy site that described the process in detail.
I'm nothing if not helpful.
The kids were strapped into their seats like all children in this electronic age -- mesmerized by videos and games on iPads and iPods. Ah, the silence of the lambs. However, the adults were reminded of the alternative with a full throttle five-minute meltdown of one child whose sister was using his gadget, "I want my iPod!" "I want my iPod!" "I want my iPod!" The mantra did not end until his father started to tickle him and he ran out of breath from laughing.
We stopped for gas and milk about six miles from our destination. I needed to stretch my legs so I snooped around the store and made suggestions like -- how about some EGG NOG!!! And did you see the Ben and Jerry's? They've got a flavor called Clusterfluff now. Everybody thought I made the name up.
Later, as several caps of dark rum and brandy made their way into glasses of the egg nog I had successfully procured, following a gourmet dinner of delivered [not DiGiorno] pizza and an iceberg lettuce salad, tossed with ranch dressing, we decided to go back in the morning for a pint of whatever that Ben and Jerry's Clusterfluff is, based on the name alone. After we pick up the bagels and cream cheese.

End of Year Reflections

2011-12-23T15:34:00.000-06:00

While most people ponder great philosophical thoughts about the events of the past year, I would rather whine about my body's disintegration.
Things that happen when you're an older woman aren't always what you might expect. Wrinkles, arthritis, spider veins, and thinning hair are just for starters. Thanks to television, "overactive bladder" is the latest public outing of a formerly private issue. Women who enjoyed the thrills of pushing out their babies via the tunnel of love start peeing in their pants in fifteen minute intervals as they age, especially during laughter or sneezing. Unless they were smart enough to have their babies by c-section. Who knew that a bikini scar was a better gynecological option for your sex and bladder functions? But the unpleasant yellow peril hasn't happened to me [yet] because, along with LaMaze, I did my Kegel exercises like a good little soldier. In fact, I was doing them while writing that last sentence. I know, you didn't ask. But if you ever see a mature woman, sitting alone, stirring a cup of coffee, absentmindedly, while staring into space -- dollars to donuts, she's not wondering what to write about on her blog, she's just doing her Kegels, desperately hoping to keep her plumbing from dropping to the pavement for just a little longer.
Of course, you're still young and don't have to think about these things.
For years, my redheaded, freckled, Anglo-Saxon complexion, for all its faults, has spared me from another old lady issue -- excess hair. In fact, true to my nature, I had little or no empathy for women who complained about their mustaches and other follicle-challenged areas, since those weren't my problems. Until a straight, black, lone ranger began to grow by leaps and bounds just above my upper lip sometime yesterday or the day before. And, moments later, another showed up about an inch in front of my left ear. And four or five appeared under my chin and down my neck. EEEEEWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!! Now I have to shave those persistent, permanent growths every morning, unless I'm flush enough to afford the $50 for a wax, which always leaves me with tears in my eyes and red welts all over my face. But that excruciating blast of hot, searing pain means no spare hairs for the next six weeks, so the hellfire is worth every freaking penny.
Of course, you're still young, so you probably don't know what I'm talking about.
And what's with these things that appear on my skin whenever and wherever they damn please? Some are just little brownish grayish spots. Like drops of turkey gravy. Others, like one on my ankle, and one above my right knee, are lumpy and purple. How gross is that? A teeny tiny little red spot just showed up on my nose in the exact same place as another teeny tiny little red spot I had removed ten years ago. Not a good sign. And there's also a pimple-sized bumpy thing growing on the other side of my nose, except that it isn't a pimple. I don't know what it is. A wart? Seriously. I always thought that when push came to shove, my nice, straight nose would be one feature I wouldn't have to worry about becoming a liability. Not so fast, Missy.
Of course, you're still young, blah blah blah.
Perhaps the only bright light in this otherwise dim assessment of my mortal portal is the pair of shiny new matching hip implants which are providing me with rock star quality performance. Walking in particular. Forays into bowling and tennis, too. And there was an actual sighting of me running across the hot sand at the beach this summer. Like a normal person.
Which brings me to the one item on the old age agenda that doesn't seem to diminish as much as I had hoped it would -- dirty old men. When I was so crippled that I often had to rely on crutches, an elderly man I had just met had the cojones to ask me, "So how do you have sex?" I answered with the old cliche, "Very carefully."
After that, I should have been prepared for the reaction of old farts whenever they hear about my newfound mobility. So far, once they learn I have new hips, all of the men -- the ones who've just been introduced to me to the ones I've known for decades, from married to unmarried, regardless of their religious, ethnic, racial, economic or political bias -- ask about sex. At least that's what I think they're asking about, "So, uh, now that you have new hips, how's the, uh, you know, I mean, can you, uh, have, uh, you know, I mean. . ."
Of course, you're still young, so you can't imagine anyone over sixty having sex anyway. Frankly, I wouldn't want to have sex with someone over sixty myself. Of all the things that befall an older woman, that may be the worst.
Well, I see by the clock on the wall, it's time for Mrs. Linklater to dress for her wellness check. Have a happy holiday.

Remember the name, Jake Wood

2011-12-14T01:28:00.000-06:00

Jake Wood is president of Team Rubicon disaster relief -- www.teamrubiconusa.org. I do volunteer work for the organization.

He was recently asked to give the commencement speech to the University of Wisconsin's winter graduates. A local college newspaper bitched and moaned about not having a world-class speaker. Here's the link to the editorial. The following is my comment to the paper:

By what measure does one determine who qualifies as a top tiercommencement speaker? Someone famous? Someone rich? Someone funny? Clearlysomeone who has created a revolutionary method for saving thousands more livesafter a natural disaster doesn’t meet your high standards.

With a sense of entitlement so typical of college students, you threw afoot-stomping tantrum worthy of a pre-schooler to show your disappointment inJake Wood, “Graduates from this world-class institution deserve a world-classspeaker to see them off and a voice in what can be one of the most significantdays of their lives.”

Really, scout’s honor? You wouldn’t rather be entertained by a famouscomedian from Saturday Night Live, followed by a world-class drunk with yourfriends afterward? You’re above that?

Does this mean you think there’s a better way to spend your twentiesbesides getting rich, getting hammered, and getting laid?

Then Jake Wood should be your speaker.

Do you honestly believe that greatness has nothing to do with money orcars, but everything to do with integrity and courage?

Then Jake Wood should be your speaker.

Can you imagine getting off your butt and doing something significantwith your life besides Occupy Something?

Then Jake Wood should be your speaker.

I reviewed two lists of all time top commencement speakers/speecheslisted on Google. Only one speech made both lists. That’s more than WinstonChurchill and JFK can say. The guy who showed up twice was Steve Jobs, whospoke at Stanford in 2005. How ironic that a college drop out was the onlyspeaker to make both top tens.

But there’s a greater irony. Actor Bradley Whitford made the all timetop ten for the world-class speech he gave to the class of 2006 at. . .wait for it. . .theUniversity of Wisconsin. I guarantee he wouldn’t have made your top tenworld-class speaker list. And yet, there he was in Madison. And he managed tosay a couple of things so worthwhile, he’s on the list of all time greats.

“Take action. Every story you’ve ever connected with, every leaderyou’ve ever admired, every puny little thing that you’ve ever accomplished isthe result of taking action. You have a choice. You can either be a passivevictim of circumstance or you can be the active hero of your own life. Actionis the antidote to apathy. . .You will inevitably make mistakes. . .At the endof your days, you will be judged by your gallop. Not by your stumble.”

If you think that Bradley Whitford is on the money, then Jake Woodshould be your speaker.

After graduation in 2005, Jake was one of the few graduates who didn’tthink the world owed him a living. Instead he took action. First he joined theMarines – a direct result of 9-11. Before reporting for duty, Katrina hitLouisiana. Jake acted again. He borrowed his father’s pick up and drove to NewOrleans to help out. During his four years in the Marines he served two tours,one in Iraq and another in Afghanistan. Unlike you, in the four years after hisgraduation he survived more danger, saw more death and lost more friends thanyou will likely experience in your lifetime.

And, unlike you and all the other top commencement speakers, except forChurchill and JFK, Jake is also a decorated combat vet. After his honorabledischarge in October of 2009 he could have coasted through the rest of hislife, getting his MBA and making a boatload of money. Three months later inJanuary of 2010, the earthquake hit Haiti. A day later Jake took action again and posted a message onhis facebook page – “I’m going to Haiti. Who’s in?” The next day Team Rubiconwas formed. In two weeks the group of veterans and medical personnel had raisedover $250,000 in money and supplies using social media and helped over 3000victims in Haiti – before the Red Cross and other humanitarian groups could gettheir acts together. And a paradigm shift in disaster relief was born – therapid deployment of medical aid, using military skills and training to savelives during disasters. In the year and eleven months since Team Rubiconformed, the group has been on 12 missions to 9 countries on four continents.

Jake didn’t sit around waiting for the world to come to him. He acted.

Jake is only 28 years old. Not one of the top commencement speakers Iread about had achieved what he has achieved by the time they were 28. He hasnot only performed acts of heroism on the battlefield but as the leader of TeamRubicon, he has made a heroic stand to provide 2.2 million Iraq and Afghanistanveterans with a meaningful transition from the military into civilian life --using their skills and training to revolutionize disaster relief.

If you want your commencement day speaker to be someone who has made anactual contribution to the world from the day he graduated, whose life can bean inspiration to anyone with the cojones to put their money where their mouthis, then no one else but Jake Wood should be your speaker.

Jake leading Team Rubicon in Joplin, MO -- helping with clean up after the tornadoes

Jake in Afghanistan as a scout/sniper

Winging It

2011-11-28T14:20:00.001-06:00

Mrs. Linklater rarely cooks anymore. She microwaves. So preparing a 20-pound turkey for this most recent Thanksgiving was a trip down memory lane -- an electric Kool-Aid acid test of her ever diminishing recall.
Back in the saddle again, thoughts of turkeys past danced in her head. The ones she cooked upside down. The ones she cooked right side up. The ones she grilled. The ones she brined. The one she won in a raffle. The 18-pounder that her sister-in-law's brother cooked in just under an hour in a deep fat fryer, positioned next to the swimming pool, just in case. The ones she infused or injected, stuffed or didn't stuff, basted with butter or broth, slathered in maple syrup, coated in Jim Beam, or sloshed with brandy or wine.
Having spent Thanksgiving as someone's out of town guest for the last fifteen years or more, Mrs. Linklater couldn't wait to mash her own potatoes, make her own gravy, and share the prep with her older daughter, who took charge of the dressing. The day was so successful, Mrs. Linklater feels compelled to share her tips for this classic American meal.

7:00 AM -- Do pre-turkey carbo dumping.
Drive to location of the annual 10k Turkey Trot to watch older daughter run in the race. Stamp feet to stay warm and burn 6.2 miles of fat by association. Bring Flip Cam to capture start and finish.

RACE START: Person in the purple hoody wearing sunglasses is DNA positive

• TIP: Remember to check and see if the camera is actually turned on when attempting to shoot video of the FINISH. Or you will get stuff like this when you think it's off and record nothing at all when you think it's on:

12:30 PM -- Get the turkey into the oven 1/2 hour late. To do this properly, stop first at Starbuck's after the race. Then pick up some stuff from Mrs. L's house before going to her daughter's.

• TIP: Don't forget to bring a meat thermometer, even if you think your daughter already has one, because she probably doesn't. Mrs. Linklater planned to cook the turkey using the high heat method -- 500° until the meat thermometer says it's done. No basting, no stuffing, no muss, no fuss. But, oops, forgot the meat thermometer.

• TIP: Read the directions for cooking again: Extremely high heat also requires a heavy duty stainless steel pan and Mrs. Linklater's untamed frugality had already settled on a lightweight aluminum pan on sale for $2.00.
So instead of risking an aluminum pan meltdown at 500° she lowered the oven temp to 450° instead. Couldn't hurt. But when she checked the bird after an hour, it was already looking as browned as it ought to be when it's done. Forgetting her years of previous poultry prowess, she panicked, covered the entire bird with aluminum foil and dropped the temperature to 325°, where it stayed for the next three hours until the bird was done -- according to the turkey leg squeeze and the joint pull test, if you'll pardon an expression. But, just in case, Mrs. L sliced into the meat anyway. Boy was it juicy. Terrified this was too good to be true, and the bird might be raw farther inside, she turned off the oven, leaving the turkey to cook some more in the last remaining degrees of heat. Meanwhile, there was no room yet on the counter, with all the slicing and dicing for the side dishes.

1:30 -3:30 PM -- Prep the side dishes. Mrs. Linklater suddenly remembered what it was like to prepare family meals every night instead of once a year, the way it should be. After chopping apples and parsley for her daughter's sausage/apple/cranberry dressing with almonds but without the sausage, then cutting the rye and wheat bread into semi-perfect little cubes and drying them out in the oven, and stopping to taste her daughter's delicious herb concoction to flavor the dressing [this sentence is getting so long Mrs. L must pause to take a breath], before finishing with a flourish by slicing a pound of mushrooms, cutting off the ends of a boatload of green beans, making broth with the giblets, and peeling three pounds of potatoes -- okay it could have been worse -- Mrs. Linklater lay down and watched football for an hour. She has no memory of which game.

• TIP: You can eat pretzels lying on your back without choking. Those mini pretzels are perfect for absorbing the saliva which begins to build in anticipation of the best meal of the year when you're watching TV. And they sit comfortably on your stomach. I'm just sayin'.

3:30 -4:30 PM -- Set the table. CAUTION: If you have pets, do not do this the night before. Nothing like finding a kitty with its ass in the middle of a plate.

• TIP: Take everything that you bought in cans and jars and put it all into serving dishes so there is the appearance of homemade.

4:30 - 6:00 -- Assemble the food. Do not worry about little spills if you have dogs. But, have a taser ready if the turkey lands on the floor. Speaking of the turkey, first take the bird out of the roasting pan so you can make gravy from the mess of burnt stuff on the bottom of the pan.
Hoisting the turkey from pan to platter is possibly the most dangerous move you can make on Thanksgiving. Mrs. Linklater knows there are no shortcuts to this frightening procedure, short of jamming your fist into the cavity and grabbing the neck with your other hand. But don't ask me to eat any of that stuffing when you're done.
The second most dangerous move is screwing up the gravy. If you made your turkey bouillon the Julia Childs' way by dredging the giblets in flour and browning them in butter and shallots first, then adding a bottle of red wine before filling up the rest of the saucepan with water, your gravy will be a lovely golden brown without too much effort. This year Mrs. Linklater' gravy did not reach its full potential. While it tasted fine, it lacked a certain je ne sais quoi, no doubt because some people, who shall remain nameless, refused to share the "drinking wine."
Sweet potatoes or yams are required on every Thanksgiving menu. It doesn't matter which one you cook, because nobody can tell them apart anyway. Fortunately, you can disguise the orange taste with brown sugar and butter. You're also expected to bury them under a layer of those annoying tiny marshmallows. Or you can break with tradition. Make a topping by warming an entire jar of Marshmallow Fluff with a half cup of butter; pour it over the sweet potato/yam mixture, sprinkle with pecans, and heat in the oven for about fifteen minutes. Or, just eat the Fluff straight out of the jar to save time. And skip the pecans. Either way, you will spare everyone all those eensy-beensy marshmallows.
Green bean casserole has become an American cliche. Fight it. Use fresh, whole green beans, saute real mushrooms, and toss it all with real bacon bits you cooked yourself and didn't get from a jar, along with a hefty amount of Marie's Ranch Dressing. IF YOU MUST, throw on some fried onions, which now have the audacity to come in a holiday can.
When she was matrimonially impaired, Mrs. Linklater used to prepare her MIL's spinach souffle. Used to. She also stepped in oyster stuffing a couple of times. However, she has yet to understand the fascination with food that looks like it's been thrown up.
Rolls. Save them for sandwiches the next day. Seriously.
Salad? Are you insane? You probably want Stilton and a lovely port after dinner, too.
On the other hand, my favorite grocery store makes cranberry chutney every year. It's so good they should sell it. Oh wait, they do. No more jellied cranberry sauce with the telltale tin can marks for me, even though, along with the green bean casserole, it has become an American past time.

• TIP: Make sure the bowl you use to whip the mashed potatoes is deep enough to keep potato spew from hitting all the appliances on the counter. Especially when you add an entire package of cream cheese and a stick of butter. Or cheese or chives or garlic or anything else.

• TIP: Have someone else wash the dishes. And remember to take a Zantac before you put the turkey in. Now's a little late.

8:30 PM or so -- slice a nice piece of pie that someone else made or bought at Baker's Square and top with a dollop of whipped cream. Serve without or without coffee. Mrs. Linklater enjoyed a wedge of both pumpkin and pecan pie with caramel flavored whipped cream that was really and truly tasty. Naturally there will always be some people who like to make their own pies. Show off! Mrs. Linklater actually considered making an old fashioned mince pie from scratch once, until she read the recipe, "First, kill a sheep. . ."

Next time -- what to do with those boiled giblets, especially the neck, which looks so much like something Lorena Bobbit tossed out a window.

Well, that's it for Mrs. Linklater's timeless cooking tips for a truly American Thanksgiving meal. Hope yours was as retrograde as hers.

The Ryan Gosling Effect

2011-11-22T13:37:00.001-06:00

Apparently this is Ryan Gosling week at Mrs. Linklater's. Thanks to Netflix, I'm watching all things Gosling to see what the hoopla is all about. Apparently something happened to the nerdy football player in Remember the Titans to propel him into stupefyingly studly status. Seriously, he couldn't have played a bigger dork in that flick. Granted, he was barely shaving back then, but talk about awkward.
Keep in mind, when Mrs. Linklater starts making rash remarks about subjects outside her limited area of expertise, simply consider the source. So, if my assessment of Ryan Gosling seems unduly harsh at first, remember I thought Josh Hartnett was really good the first time I saw him.

Speaking of blank pages, the man from Minnesota could use a Mike Nichols-directed movie to goose his lame-ass career. Ann Margret was twirling down the drain after a slew of bad movies until Carnal Knowledge. Nichols' skills revealed the latent acting talent that other, less competent directors flat-out missed when they were no doubt blinded by her titolas. Josh could use a jolt of Nichols' ability to elicit good performances. I think he's got one. Or there's always voiceover work.

Where was I? My groundbreaking research into Ryan Gosling's grip on cinema began by watching Half Nelson, an overrated, self-indulgent indy film that asked the question, "What's going to become of a drug-fueled junior high history teacher who drives his latch key student home from school?" Not much, it turns out. But, he and co-star Shareeka Epps managed to overcome a very beige, rinse and repeat script with some prime time acting, worthy of several nominations/wins for both. Score one for Mr. Gosling.
Last night, after I refused to pay money to see The Notebook in theaters six or seven years ago, I finally watched it on my computer. After suffering through Clint Eastwood and Meryl Streep stumbling through the Bridges of Madison County in 1995, I vowed not to get sucked into the maelstrom of mawk ever again. Just the thought of reading the books that spawned these movies gives me diabetes.
Shockingly, The Notebook didn't suck, even with a story that tiptoed on the edge of Karo syrup -- a chick flick for the ages. I kept waiting to hate the script and never did. Sam Shepherd is as real as it gets. James Garner never misses. Gena Rowlands is the mother of us all. And James Marsden is just four inches short of worldwide domination. They were the solid bricks and mortar supporting the movie. Interesting that The Notebook won a "best feature film casting award" from CSA.
Nicholas Sparks' wife's grandparents had actually lived this impossibly romantic fairy tale, it turns out. [You can learn things during the commentary.] Nothing like treacle that's true. But the story is only as good as the performances. As much as I hate to admit it, Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams melted the celluloid together. There wasn't a scene between those two that wasn't lit from within. Both were present and accounted for every second.
The two of them practically swept the Teen Choice Awards in categories that guarantee immortality for boy gets girl movies: Choice male and female, Choice breakout male, Choice chemistry, Choice dance scene, Choice love scene, Choice liplock. And Best kiss and Best female performance from MTV.
Ryan Gosling wastes nothing on screen. His gestures and expressions are all in service of the moment. You can read a book by the light in his eyes. Even his stillness communicates as much or more as when he speaks. If young love is now a genre, he defines the category. Score another one for Mr. Gosling. The geek is all grown up.
Now I've got a bunch of his other flicks to watch. Let's see if his performances hold up to Mrs. Linklater's squinty-eyed scrutiny. Inquiring minds will want to know.

UPDATE: Not that she's hooked or anything, but so far Mrs. Linklater has added Blue Valentine, The Believer, Stay, Fracture, All Good Things, The Ides of March, and Crazy, Stupid, Love to her Ryan Gosling repertoire. She owns Lars and the Real Girl and Remember the Titans. Drive, Murder by Numbers and The Slaughter Rule are in her queue. He should win somebody's best actor for Blue Valentine. Stay is a film student's wet dream visually, a nightmare otherwise. His talent is wasted in Fracture and All Good Things, even Ides of March. But the boy is brilliant in Crazy, Stupid, Love. Dan Fogelman's dialog between Ryan and Emma Stone, the first time he tries to pick her up, is as fast and slick as anything Aaron Sorkin tossed out during Social Network. I'm waiting for "You look photoshopped!" to go viral. And Gosling fans around the world no doubt noticed that he gained some well placed L.B.s for the part. BTW, are Gosling fans Goslings? I got bitchslapped by The Believer. If they gave a retroactive Oscar/Golden Globe for best actor, that performance would definitely be on my list. Meanwhile, I have been trying to see Drive in a theater, but it's on its way to DVD land and the closest theater was sixty miles away, so I *sigh* have to wait.

"Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor BLAH BLAH BLAH. . ."

2011-11-18T12:39:00.001-06:00

I don't know about your post office, but there have been some noticeable changes at mine. I'm not talking about the longer hours for no extra pay, or fewer mail carriers. I'm talking about the service. Not that I would deign to suggest that there's a link between less people, more work, no additional compensation, and worse service. Not me.
Regardless, in September I noticed that my mail was suddenly being delivered after four in the afternoon. Or later. So far, the latest delivery has been after 6:00 PM. I don't know exactly when the mail arrived, but I left at six and got home at eight, only to discover mail in my mailbox. That's not just late, that's tomorrow.
However, I figured I could cut the PO some slack because of the belt tightening. Plus all the old mail carriers had been replaced by a bunch of different ones, a ragtag bunch, if you ask me. Like one of the movies where there's a difficult mission that could end in death, so they choose all the misfits for the job. That bunch.
So even though they are trained professionals and my neighborhood is laid out in a perpendicular grid that an idiot could figure out, they might not be familiar with the routes yet. Assuming they care.
  Along with the late deliveries, I also noticed there are days when I get no mail at all. In the thirty years I've lived in my town, that's never happened until now. Except on holidays, of course. Usually there's enough junk mail to load up my mailbox any day of the week.
Then mail began to disappear selectively. In September I was expecting a refund check from The Lock Up. But it never arrived. On the other hand it was never cashed. So another check had to be cut. Since that one wasn't sent to my house, I got it.
In October I just found out another check was sent from a different company. I never got that one either. They told me they will be sending a second one today. It should arrive on Monday or Tuesday. Maybe.
A couple of days ago I got a whole bunch of mail intended for someone else. It included catalogs and letters, about eight in all. Over the years a single letter or magazine might get delivered to my house by mistake, but not the entire delivery. The number was correct, but the street was wrong.
Today I called the post office with my "concerns". As soon as I told the new postmaster what was going on, he had me talk to the supervisor in charge of delivery. I told her about the late deliveries, the days when there was no mail, the mis-delivered mail and the missing checks. I told her I was concerned that someone may be targeting my mailbox.
What I'm really concerned about is incompetent or even integrity-challenged new mail carriers. Mail carriers who aren't delivering the mail, but dumping it somewhere. Or delivering it to the wrong address. Or just taking the mail, although no attempt has been made to cash my checks. There's also the possibility that someone is getting my mail by mistake and throwing it out, or worse.
So I did something I shouldn't have done. I told the delivery supervisor when the check is supposed to be delivered. Any bets on my chances of getting that check now? She said she would put a watch on my mail. I wonder how that's done?
"Okay, everyone -- watch out for Mrs. Linklater's mail. She's expecting a check."
Update to follow.

UPDATE: Check arrived unscathed. Other checks still nowhere to be found. Also, mail is arriving BEFORE noon. And something comes every day. Hmm, I guess it pays to call with complaints.

Why is Ryan Gosling's Fly Open?

2011-11-15T19:09:00.001-06:00

I have a lot of DVDs. Not as many as some. But more than others. I bought most of them at the many Blockbuster Four [previewed] DVDs for $20 sales -- first because I like to watch movies more than once, so why not own them? Secondly, because they were cheap.
But now that I've watched some of them more than ten times [Blade Runner director's cut anyone?] I'm suddenly hooked on the bonus features. Particularly the feature where the director, or the director and various other people attached to the movie, comment on it, while we're all watching it together.
I just watched Gladiator that way. Needless to say, I still love that movie. But I have been dying to know how the opening battle was filmed. Everything about it looks so different from the rest of the movie. I wondered if it was shot in 16 mm because it seemed so grainy. How much of the unusual, almost pixilated effect was done in post? I was curious about the unusual look of the entire sequence. Somebody tell me. So when I heard the director of photography and the editor introducing themselves as the movie began, I got all excited in a educational way. Enough to put down my pretzels and dip. But Ridley Scott was also on board, and the other guys turned into toadies from the get-go. I hardly heard them speak at all. And Ridley was all about giving the actors their props. Russell Crowe was perfect.[YES] Connie Nielsen was perfect. [Sorry, I thought she was just WRONG but I was impressed that she had more knowledge of the Roman Empire than the experts hired as consultants]. Joaquin Phoenix was perfect with white makeup and something to make his eyes dark and brooding.[YES. He should have won the best supporting actor, but no one realized how well he was acting. Everyone thought he was just playing himself.] Oliver Reed was also perfect, albeit dead before filming was completed.
But, the only thing worthwhile that anyone said about the crazy battle at the beginning was when the DP mentioned, almost in passing, that they shot it at 6 to 8 frames a second. Really? That's it? What kind/speed of film did you use? Did you push it? What kind of lenses? Talk to me Antonio or whatever your name was. Everyone knows that the only people who listen to the commentary over the movie are film students and people like me who have no life. So TALK about how you made the movie, already. And Ridley, don't spend all your time giving tongue to people like the guy who positioned the chair that's out of focus in the background in one of the tents. I don't give a rip.
Two Weeks Notice, which should have had hilarious commentary with the director, Marc Lawrence, joined by Sandy "Bollocks" and her pal, Hugh Grant, was a dud. The only laugh moment I had was when Sandy made fun of Hugh for pronouncing "renaissance" as "renn-A-sanse," instead of "rennaSONSE," which was pretty silly of him.
I've watched Groundhog Day every Groundhog Day since it came out. And more. Fifteen, maybe twenty times. I finally watched it with director/co-writer Harold Ramis commenting. With nobody to stop him, he had an annoying habit of giving us the line that was about to be said and then saying it along with the actor, so it was like hearing an echo. And one time he even said, "I think this is some great dialog, probably because I wrote it." Then he proceeded to speak it along with Bill Murray.
One bit he did was funny the first three times, but the fourth time he said, "Have I told you that I kept the coat that he's [Murray] wearing?" -- it smelled of old socks. He also has a thing about Andie MacDowell. I was somewhat embarrassed to hear that he would forget to say "cut" because he was so mesmerized by her natural beauty or whatever magic she holds over him.
I recently watched Lars and the Real Girl again. That was a quirky, sweet, and strangely philosophical movie. So I was hoping for some fun bonus features. Ryan Gosling stayed in character with the anatomically correct "Bianca" sitting next to him for an interview, which was very funny, but I was disappointed there was no director commentary. The director needed to 'splain himself, because I noticed two weird things in the movie, not that having a blow up doll for a leading lady didn't qualify. First I noticed a lot of pink everywhere -- clothing, flowers, an entire bedroom, even a pink bowling ball that Ryan Gosling used. What was that all about? And the other odd detail was that Ryan's fly was open more than once. I even went back to check. Yep, not real obvious, but that zipper was in the down position. Maybe that's why there's no director's commentary.
George Clooney's director commentary for Good Night, and Good Luck, with his good friend, co-writer, and producer, Grant Heslov, is rich with information and punctuated with his deadpan humor. The film was shot on color stock with a virtually black and white set, then transferred to black and white film afterward. They didn't have an actor play Senator McCarthy. Instead they used archival footage of the HUAC hearings with McCarthy's actual ravings and rantings at the witnesses and later, at the media. Ironically, there were people in some audiences who complained that the actor who played McCarthy was too over the top, not knowing they were seeing the real McCoy.
Clooney deadpans a riff about treating women on the set the way women were treated back in the fifties, along with several funny asides about the people he worked with. At one point, when Heslov mocks Clooney's second grade artistic skills, he replies, "Second grade was the best six years of my life."
Another favorite director in this soon-to-be-up-for-an-award genre of director commentary was J.J. Abrams who was joined by a hooting and laughing gaggle of actors, special effects peeps, ADs, DPs, and a couple of relatives or two. They dealt out a lot of trivia and had as much fun as you would expect a bunch of thirty-somethings to have, sitting around ragging on each other.
Probably my favorite bonus feature of all time was for Hot Shots Part Deux. From years ago. No director commentary. But the documentary with Charlie Sheen was hysterical. He did it all in character. Unfortunately, that was on the VHS version and I wonder if it's on the DVD?
Once again, Mrs. Linklater has the courage to ask the difficult questions.

"I've never met anyone so old who had a blog."

2011-11-14T14:06:00.001-06:00

She looks like a young Kat Von D. She stands very tall in her ridiculously high heels. Her body is tattooed. Her hair is dyed black. Her eyes are rimmed in black eyeliner. One of her nostrils is pierced. And her lips are painted blood red. The effect is porn star pretty.
She attended an art school for awhile, but quit. She says she's sorry she quit. Oops. Meanwhile, she's now attending a film/media/performing arts college. I wonder when she'll quit that, too. She seems like a quitter. The kind of girl who gets bored with something or has an assignment due, so she quits, forgetting that one of these days she is going to run out of time, money, drugs, her overinflated sense of entitlement, and have to get a job.
She was introduced to me as someone who wanted to get into the music business. Like I could help. Apparently her experience includes a boyfriend in a rock 'n' roll band. So I mistakenly thought that meant she could compose music. Nope. She writes lyrics. Given her appearance and vocabulary, I decided she had confused banging the band with banging out lyrics. Of course, there might have been that one time when everybody got stoned and she helped the guys rhyme "cocaine" with "rain."
But, there was no way I could help her, especially with the rock 'n' roll end of the music business. My connections only go as far as the jingle lyrics I've written and the music I've produced to go with those lyrics, which were all for radio and tv commercials. So unless she wanted to get into writing for advertising, which requires a modicum of intelligence I did not see on display, I couldn't hook her up.
I don't know how we got to talking about blogs, but we did. She says she has one, but during our brief meeting, I could tell by the way she talked that 1] she wasn't funny and 2] she didn't have the vocabulary to write her way out of a paper bag, so, 3] I didn't ask for her blog's name or what it was about.
She did the same to me, dismissing me with an insulting comment by first saying that she didn't mean it as an insult. Much. "I've never met anyone so old who had a blog," she said out loud. It was such a stupid thing to say I didn't say anything back, much to the disappointment of my fan base, it turns out.
When I posted that little quote on my facebook page, I got a lot of comments. Most people wanted to know how I cut her back down to earth. But I was so amazed by how that brainless bitch could say something so stupid, I didn't say anything. I just looked at her like she was a piece of lint that needed to be brushed off. And our conversation was over.
So, I'm sorry if I've disappointed anybody.
But, really, why waste good stuff on a cipher?

The Pope and Penn State

2011-11-10T17:24:00.001-06:00

"Maybe now the Vatican will take the lead from Penn State and fire the pope."
A few days ago I wrote that thought on my wall over on facebook. Obviously, I meant it tongue in cheek, oops sorry, probably not the best metaphor, so let's just say I was kidding. I kid because the idea that there will be any meaningful prosecution of the Catholic Church for centuries of harboring sexual predators is highly improbable. For 2000 years, the continued silence of its leaders has effectively sanctioned the worldwide rape and sodomy of children by priests, whose victims may now number in the millions -- a crime so huge and endemic, it will never be punished except in the most superficial ways.
Since the secret lives of priests went public and global several years ago, we've now segued into the well-publicized, predatory proclivities of a coach at Penn State, albeit aided and abetted by other coaches and the university president. None of these coaches or the president called the cops, because their responsibility to the law and the lives of those children was superseded by a cover your ass [how appropriate] mentality.
But, instead of considering Penn State a case of one rogue coach at one school, do the math a different way. Assume that every grade school, junior high, high school, college and university in the country has at least one pedophile coach still operating under the radar. With a minimum of ten victims each. Protected from prosecution the Penn State way. Now do the math.
I knew a star high school wrestler who told me his coach used his friendship with his parents to molest him. How many other parents did the guy consider his friends? This young man still couldn't tell his folks what happened, even after the guy died. So just imagine the potential number of victims out there.
Click HERE for the best response to the Penn State fiasco. It's the best I've read castigating not only the people who penetrate the private parts of children, but the people who witness this outrage or have it reported to them, only to sweep it under the rug, the altar, the stadium, or, in my upcoming example, the cub scout tent.
  In keeping with this ongoing theme of unreported, unprosecuted, unpunished pedophiles, I thought I would re-post a link to an article that profiles a teacher/cub scout leader who used to live in my community, a man who allegedly preyed on cub scouts and students in my area for fifty years, a couple of whom confirmed to me that he had molested them in his tent. You can read the post HERE.
The comments after my post of that article [which has its own comments] are interesting. Along with one notable [naive?] person who defends the teacher/cub scout leader, there are others who stepped up to say he molested them, too. Remember, this man was in scouting for five decades. Two generations. And never prosecuted. I knew boys who were in his cub scout pack who committed suicide as young adults. Wouldn't it be nice if the statute of limitations extended well into adulthood, so when these boys became men they could take out their anger through the legal system, instead of taking out their anger on themselves?

Lost in Translation

2011-10-30T15:10:00.000-05:00

25 years ago, Tony LaRussa was the manager of the Chicago White Sox. He revitalized a dormant fanbase with hope and the promise of rebuilding the franchise. But after a very slow start in 1986, GM Ken Harrelson, in a move to rival the Cubs' decision to trade away Lou Brock, fired LaRussa after his 8 1/2 years with the Sox. Dumped him, despite the Sox winning the '83 AL West in a runaway, a first of any kind for the team since 1959.
In retrospect, Harrelson's decision to fire LaRussa may have been the stupidest move on or off the field, ever, given LaRussa's later track record with Oakland and now St. Louis. Yes, worse than former Cub Bill Buckner's boot for the Red Sox in game six of the '86 series. Worse than the Barkman debacle. Notice how many Cubs are on the stupid move list?
By the end of next season, LaRussa should be the second winningest manager in baseball history, with only 35 games needed to pass John McGraw. Connie Mack is the top guy. And the two behind LaRussa, Bobby Cox and Joe Torre are retired. I think everybody else is dead.
This year, when the Cardinal bullpen supposedly didn't understand which reliever to start warming up in Game 5 of the World Series, that misunderstanding, bad connection, whatever it was, led to a comedy of errors that had a left-handed pitcher facing a right-handed hitter who eats lefties for lunch. Everybody everywhere knew there had been a huge mistake. I couldn't find the play-by-play, but it is worth a listen as the announcers jabber on and on, completely astonished by the egregious managerial fiasco taking place. One that ended as badly as it could have, and cost St. Louis the game.
After the loss, the consensus was that the Rangers had two tries to win one game. St. Louis was dead in the water. But I knew [like thousands of others] that no matter what act of stupidity had occurred in the fifth game, LaRussa could still win it all. I haven't kept my very old issue of Sports Illustrated that profiled his computerized micro-managerial skills in detail for nothing. I'm only sorry I didn't do my predictin' earlier. When I could have seemed like a freaking genius. Now I'm just another fan who needs a blog entry.
In the end, it was all good news for the Cards. For Chicago White Sox fans -- it could have been better. If LaRussa hadn't had such a miraculous comeback at the end of the season just to make the playoffs, then winning the World Series when most people wrote the Cards off after Game 5, there's a real chance he might have been fired. And with Ozzie Guillen gone, Jerry Reinsdorf might have hired him to manage the Sox again. No, really.
In the end I just couldn't bring myself to root for the Rangers. Even in a town where rooting for the Cardinals is considered heresy. Although cheering for LaRussa is probably just fine.

UPDATE: LaRussa has retired. I'm just sick. On another note -- doesn't he look GOOD for 67?

That Was The Week That Was

2011-10-28T14:00:00.004-05:00

In case you've been dying to know about my exciting life, here's a recap of Halloween week:

Shades of Mrs. Linklater in green hair and makeup

Yo, Harem Boy, you talking to me?

Little Orphan Annie on Social Security

Thursday night, my randy old ladies' barbershop singing group had its annual Halloween party during our Thursday night rehearsal. Everyone showed up in costume, which ranged from Joyce, who dressed up as Anne Boleyn after the beheading, with her neck wrapped in gauze to keep her head from falling off her body -- to Sue, in a costume that made no sense whatsoever, but won a prize because the combination of Harlequin clown shirt, blue fright wig and Groucho Marx nose, glasses, and eyebrows made everyone laugh -- to a number of witches, five to be exact, only one of whom [me] went the extra mile and covered her face and hands in green make up.

Given our above average age, there were no attempts to dress as a hooker, since that result would look more like a bag lady than anything resembling Lady Gaga or a Lady of the Evening. There was a geriatric version of little Orphan Annie, complete with coke bottle glasses, and an older, plumper version of Cinderella, in a bright pink floor length satin dress and extremely long blond wing. One of my personal favorites was a charming interpretation of the world's oldest harem girl, as well as a cat in leopard fur, a zombie in a top hat that looked like Dick Van Dyke as the chimney sweep in Mary Poppins, a pirate in a really nice brocade vest I wouldn't mind wearing in real life, plus a number of other get ups I can't remember, and someone who came straight from work who only had time to don a pair of devil's horns.

This year is also the 20th anniversary of our conductor keeping us on pitch, so I had a cake made with a poem suggested by our current president, "Congratulations on 20 years, Alice! You make our voices ring and our hearts sing!" For those keeping track, I ordered a yellow cake with raspberry filling and chocolate [not fudge] buttercream frosting. I got to take a nice big piece home with me. And you didn't.

We gave our leader an engraved commemorative crystal frame and a lovely necklace with a gemstone surrounded by diamonds. She said they were the first diamonds she'd ever received. [Meanwhile I noticed last summer that her husband enjoys a 60-inch plasma TV in the living room.]
I think we were only charged double for the jewelry. [I kid.] I guess it helps to have a member of the group whose husband has a jewelry store, no doubt steadily supplied by the large number of pawn shops he also owns.

On Wednesday, I finally got my check for $200 and change from The Lock Up -- several weeks and many phone calls after it had been promised. Asswipes. At our every other month lunch at Kiki's French Bistro, two old friends made fun of me for making such a big deal about $200, after I'd spent $24,000 at the place. Hey, it's the principle of the thing. And you two are extremely well compensated, so poo poo on you.

William McNulty and Jake Wood taking a break in Haiti, 2010

Wednesday night, William McNulty, VP of Team Rubicon, called from LA and left a message that Jake Wood, president of TR had just won GQ's "Better Man Better World" search at the Gentlemen's Ball in NYC. I called back and said, "Holy shit!" I couldn't believe he'd won. With Jake's win, TR gets $15,000 from Movado. He also gets some money and a photo spread in GQ [keep your eye out].

Since the group formed last year the day after the Haiti quake, I have done some volunteer PR for them. I wrote the GQ nomination at the request of TR, because I've had good luck getting him some other awards. When Jake made the five finalists, I read the other nominations and thought mine was the best, if I say so myself. So YAY for me. But mostly it just felt great to be a part of helping Team Rubicon and making a truly useful contribution. Supposedly the writer of the nomination that wins gets an iPad. . .not that I needed any incentive to nominate Jake. I'll donate it back to TR, but first I have to get it.

Emma and Rich in Honolulu

On Tuesday, we got closer to finishing our PSAs for an assistance dog non profit, headquartered on Maui in Hawaii. Service dogs are such amazing animals. The people that train them are exceptional too. The relationship between people with disabilities and their dogs is remarkable and I think we've captured the depths of that emotional bond in these spots. Emma and Rich are a wonderful example of that special relationship. I'll post a link to them on YouTube once they're approved. Right now we're figuring out a way to animate the logo and do some retooling of the elements.

My birthday is Sunday. No, really, I can't accept your gifts. I got an invitation from friends to join them for dinner, which is always a nice evening at their house. They have a new dog, a Marley lab, which, if you've read Marley & Me, means he's the hyperactive American breed, not the calm, easy going British version. But I love dogs, so it should be fun. And there's Sunday night football!! Somewhere there's a man longing for a woman who loves to watch football. As long as she's got Pam Anderson's body. I can never win.

Finally, today I got an email announcing that a couple I know from a swank, upper middle-class suburb outside Chicago, are now certified Angus beef farmers. He's a doc; she's a marketing person. Now they're farmers. That's like a lawyer and a nurse becoming long haul truckers. They took over his family's farm in Wisconsin and started doing the grass fed organic beef thing, topping off the food cycle with some grain just before the animals are slaughtered, so the meat doesn't have that fresh as fescue taste.

I got to try some of their burgers last summer and the taste was terrific. I was a little skeptical about the flavor because I'd tried Tall Grass Company beef, the grass fed beef from Kansas, started by a former news anchor here in Chicago. And that meat tasted like grass smells when you've just mowed it. So I was pleasantly surprised by the real beef flavor from my friends' Wisconsin farm.

Linda Yellin, author of The Last Blind Date, autographed her book for me

And that's pretty much it for my jetsetter life, unless you want to include the book signing I went to last week and the musical retreat I attended on Saturday. I already wrote about the Dixieland Band memorial service last Sunday. What do you people want from me?

We've Come A Long Way Baby

2011-10-23T21:49:00.002-05:00

Today I went to a memorial service for someone I met only once. Herman was the cranky, 96-year-old husband of a high school classmate, who now sings in the same barbershop choir as I do. I couldn't imagine marrying someone almost thirty years older than I. But she always claimed he looked and acted twenty years younger than he was, so I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Although the man I met a couple of years ago was a dead ringer [pun alert] for Mr. Burns on The Simpsons. And just as charming.
The service was held in a suburb of Chicago, best known for its captains of industry and the extent of its restrictive covenants back in the day. Time was, if you weren't lily white and could trace your ancestors back to the Mayflower, the D.A.R., or the Colonial Dames of America, buying a house in this little enclave of Republican snobs was not an option. I remember when my family was house-hunting in the fifties and our real estate agent made the mistake of showing us a home in this area, assuring us that the village was restricted. That was code for, "We don't sell to members of racial minorities, or worse, Jews." My mother said, "But a lot of our friends are Jewish." She didn't bother to mention my father's Jewish mother. And the woman replied, "Oh, they are allowed to visit." Damn nice of them.
I expected that a memorial service at the 150-year-old nondenominational White Anglo Saxon Protestant church in the middle of this town would be a mix of thee and thou readings from the old and new testaments, a bunch of stodgy hymns, and organ music last heard in the 18th century. Not to mention a boring eulogy by a dottering old pastor, recounting each and every one of the deceased's ninety-six years. I was braced for a long afternoon.
Imagine my surprise when the readings included a poem by Robert Frost and a well-acted excerpt from John Mortimer's British TV show, Rumpole of the Bailey. And in place of the usual Amazing Grace or Abide with Me, one of the hymns was an original composition written by the deceased's daughter for the occasion. She also astonished everyone with a beautiful, operatic rendition of Ave Maria, the only piece of classical "church" music during the service. It was her grandmother's favorite song, and the one she was practicing at home when her father passed away.
In a town most notable as a hotbed of conservative activism -- an oxymoron if there ever was one -- I would hardly expect to find the leader of the local church to be a woman. But there she was, in the pulpit, acknowledging that Herman wasn't really a religious man, in the sense that he went to church on Sundays, but he embraced the ten commandments and lived a moral life with integrity. So those of you expecting the usual religious stuff can relax. We're going to take the road less traveled today. The rules will be relaxed to include some secular favorites instead of the usual biblical ones.
Another surprise was the candor of the tributes. One of Herman's sons told some amusing stories about his stubborn, quick-tempered, workaholic dad, who retired after thirty years from his job to immediately launch his own worldwide consulting firm. Apparently Herman finally stopped working at ninety-two only because he'd outlived all his clients.

Never one to sit around, Herman was always busy doing something, rebuilding the engine of his unsafe-at-any-speed Corvair, re-habbing his antique Criss Craft, doing all the maintenance at the family's resort in Michigan, or tinkering around their ski condo in Colorado. Sometimes he had his family helping with these operations at midnight, in zero degree weather. He was one tough old bird.

His son ended his tribute to his father with a poignant, moving summary of their relationship, "He wasn't the best dad there ever was. But he was my dad. And I loved him."

The biggest surprise of all happened early. It began when I arrived at the church. I got a program and stood with others in the back, waiting, because we were told it was too early to be seated. Not until the band started. The band? In this church? For a memorial service? In a town that embraced Barry Goldwater like a brother in 1964? Maybe they were just kidding, calling the fancy string quartets that usually play at this type of venue "the band." A little Protestant humor.
About fifteen minutes prior to the start of everything, sure enough, the "band" arrived. Five guys walked out and stood just in front of the pews. There wasn't a cello in the bunch. No violins. No violas. Instead -- a cornet player, clarinet player, trombone player, tuba player, and a five-string banjo player took the stage, as it were.
Apparently the deceased was quite an accomplished woodwind player -- clarinet and sax -- performing with bands in the Catskills as a young man. Until the lure of mechanical engineering and a long career in the more lucrative steel industry beckoned.
When he died, he made it clear he wanted a Dixieland band to play at his funeral. And here they were, replacing the expected organ prelude with the classic New Orleans sounds of "Just a Closer Walk With Thee."
For the next hour we were transported back to Louisiana several times. With one side trip for a glorious piano and clarinet rendition of Take Five, Paul Desmond's brilliant 5/4 jazz composition made famous by the Dave Brubeck Quintet.
I had my flip cam with me, but I didn't feel comfortable taking video during the service. Especially since I hadn't asked permission ahead of time. However, that didn't stop me from finally turning it on to capture the vibrant sound of the Dixieland music that filled the church. Unfortunately the video portion is locked onto the membership card in the back of the pew in front of me. But if you make to the end [four minutes or so] I let the camera take a quick peek and you'll see the band. Here's the YouTube LINK.
When the group finished playing their first number, everybody clapped, as we continued to do after all their numbers throughout the service. At that point, the pastor turned to everyone and announced, "I want them to play at MY funeral!"
Me too.

Let's Put The Lock Up Out Of Business

2011-10-19T16:26:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I wake up wondering how I'll spend the day. Other times, I want to focus my efforts on putting a self storage company out of business. Interesting how organizations behaving badly can help a person find a mission in life.
After more than ten years of renting two self storage lockers from The Lock Up, which does business in eight states and has about fourteen facilities in the Chicago area alone, I decided to stop throwing money down that bottomless pit any longer. Articles like THIS ONE pointed out that I could have purchased what I was storing several times with the amount I was paying in fees. Ten years times $200 per month -- you do the math. That was $24,000 I'd never see again. Did I mention I bought into the heated and air conditioned upgrade too?
The monthly rent isn't all you can expect. Be ready for the usurious late fees The Lock Up charges. You can expect loan shark quality "vig" if your payment is one minute past the grace period.
The late charges begin at 20% of the monthly fee and continue to grow to as much as 50% if you don't pay by 30 days. So if your locker costs $100, you're looking at $150+ by the end of the month. Who is regulating the business practices of these storage companies?
Fortunately, with one exception, the considerate people who used to work at my location always gave me a heads up phone call -- against the rules -- to help me avoid the kinds of penalties banks can only dream of.
And then there are the attractive low-low rental fees. For several years I paid a fairly stable amount for the two lockers I rented, which, like most people who get sucked into self storage, began as a "special." Surprisingly, the monthly increase went up only $10 per locker, or 10%, in all that time. To economize this last year, I downgraded to two unheated lockers so I could save $80 a month. That decision alone cut my fees almost by half.
However, there was a change in management I was told. Sure, the new people who worked at my location were still helpful, friendly, and considerate, but a mere six months later, my new, much lower locker fees suddenly jumped by 28%. With no warning. I was told this was standard practice. For who? The Russian Mafia? The rates that suck you in only last for six months. Didn't the credit card companies get into trouble for similar behavior?
Apparently there's nothing to stop them from raising the prices as high as they want. Just try to find an alternative. Check for yourself. Self storage prices tend to be the same across the board. Is that the fires of hell or do I smell collusion?
I get the impression that building a storage facility is a license to print money to begin with, so why this need to gouge the renters? Wait, I bet I know. Because they can. Scratch the surface of this industry and I'm sure there's an "association" of self storage companies that meets in warm spots during winter for annual meetings. They probably don't bother the latest improvements in aluminum garage doors and cinder block construction, when price fixing is so much more fun.
The introductory price scam is when I knew I had to move everything out.
On September fifth, with my lockers now empty, I signed all the exit papers and I was told I would receive my initial $200 deposit in two weeks. I had actually forgotten about the deposit, so, in a way, it felt like found money.
On the other hand, it was money that had been sitting for over ten years in somebody else's bank account, adding interest. Not much, but money I'd never see.
As it turns out, they were going to make me work for my refund.
Two weeks passed after moving out and no check. Was this going to be their final stick it to me?
Four weeks passed and still no check, so I called and asked someone at the location to find out when the check was sent out. Based on their original promise, I should have had the check by September 19th, I pointed out.
It was sent out September 21st they told me. So what you really meant to say was I won't be getting the check in two weeks, because you don't send it out until after two weeks have passed.
The problem, I pointed out, is that it was now October 5th, almost two weeks after the check supposedly went out on September 21st.
So where is the check?
They actually told me it was in the mail. And it was the post office's fault that I didn't have it. Maybe my address was incorrect they added. Or the check was delivered to the wrong address. Then I'd have to wait until the post office sent it back to them. And they didn't know when that would be.
If I were using their late fee penalty structure, they'd owe me $300 by now. And another $60 as of last Friday.
I called back. I've been getting mail from you for a decade. I don't think it was sent to the wrong address. The post office isn't the bad guy here. Stop payment on the check and cut a new one I told them. Once again they did nothing and blamed the post office.
Keep in mind that during all this, I'm not talking to anyone at the corporate office where people actually write the check. I can only talk to the call center or the location where I rented. These are the people stuck in the middle between a disgruntled customer and the corporate toadies. They have to relay my messages back and forth, to and from corporate, because I'm not allowed to to talk directly to the people who are responsible for this mess. In case you're wondering, the location and phone number of the corporate office are not provided anywhere on the website. I wonder why?
Another week goes by.
I call again. Hello, I didn't get the check. In fact, I have no proof you people even sent me a check. I only have your word. Here's what you're going to tell corporate to do, I said, repeating myself, because clearly no one was listening -- stop payment on the first check, tell them to cut me a new one, and send it to me today.
That was last week. This week -- still no check.
Yesterday morning I called to say that I had spent over $20,000 with the company and if I didn't get a check FedExed to me for today [Wednesday], I would write about their slimy operation in my blog. Based on the number of friends I have who worry constantly about showing up in an entry, I thought that should put some real 'I'll show you a thing or two" fear into them. For at least a minute or two.
Yesterday afternoon, I got a message saying that the people in The Lock Up accounting department claimed that the check had been returned by the post office. And they were going to cut me another check! But, now they wanted to know whether I wanted it sent to the rental location or my home? What is it about sending ME a check that they don't understand?
This was followed by another message saying oops there was a misunderstanding. The check didn't actually get sent back to The Lock Up, but they definitely were going to stop payment on the first one and send me a new one. Like this was suddenly their idea. And [once again] did I want it sent to my house or the rental location?
Before I could call back, I got yet another message this morning reiterating that The Lock Up would stop payment and cut a new check [rinse and repeat], but they wouldn't be sending it to me via FedEx. [Big mistake.] And now I had no choice -- they were sending the check to the rental location instead of my house. Stupid just keeps getting stupider.
So I called the location where I had rented and I asked when was the check going out? He didn't know. I said it better go out today [Wednesday]. And I better get it by Friday.
Then I asked him what state the corporate offices were located in. He told me he'd have to call his boss to get permission to give me that information.
Really? You have to have permission to tell me that? I just want to know which state. Illinois it turns out. But call your boss anyway and ask him if you can give me the address and phone number of your corporate offices.
He'll get back to me.
I will post it here.
Meanwhile, what are the odds I will get a check by Friday? Zero, it turns out.
Nothing arrived Friday, October 21st.
Nothing arrived Saturday, October 22nd.
Nothing arrived on Monday, October 24th. When I called the location, I was told that the check would arrive on Tuesday or Wednesday, "by the latest."
Nothing arrived on Tuesday, October 25th, but when I called my former location, a substitute answered the phone. So, figuring she didn't know about the embargo, I asked, "Can you give me the phone number and address of the corporate offices?" "Sure. 847.441.7477." The address that goes with that phone number is 800 Frontage Road, Northfield, IL 60093 in case you want to join me on a picket line.
Today, October 26th, five weeks after it was promised and seven weeks after I moved everything out, a check arrived at the location where I used to rent my lockers.
The amount of the check was strange: $204.14. It's possible that the original rental was $102 per locker. I know it reached $110 after several years. But I have no idea where the $.14 cents came from. So, I'll write and ask.

FIRST UPDATE: Wednesday, October 19th: I've done a little sleuthing and found the name of the owner of the company, Bob Soudan. I have also found out that the company that owns The Lock Up Development Group seems go be a holding company for a number of real estate ventures -- BRB Development, LLC. And the address listed for their corporate offices is in the next town. A mere four miles away. I have the feeling that they aren't going to mail the second check. Somebody will probably drive it over to my rental location instead. So they can save a stamp. That's how cheap they are.
I read where The Lock Up is considered the leader in the self storage industry's association. I knew they had to have one. So that would make them in charge of the price fixing for the entire industry I suppose. Ooops, did I say that out loud?
The article mentions the owner's son, Bob, Jr. and son-in-law, Rick Hielscher, as taking over the business. What's interesting is that the son-in-law has the same name as a guy who grew up in my hometown, was a 6'8" center on my high school's basketball team, and an All Ivy player at Princeton. And used to work at Leo Burnett ad agency. He would also be the son of a guy I used to work with at my ad agency. Turns out he is listed on LinkedIn so I checked his profile. Bingo. One and the same guy. Got an address and and a phone number for the bidness. So I can just ease on down the road tomorrow. . .
I'll keep you posted.

High School Reunion Photo from Hell

2011-10-18T18:50:00.002-05:00

This photo was sent to me with the caption, "EVIDENCE." I think you can figure out which one of these brave souls was moi, performing at great personal risk during our 50th high school reunion gala. I hope my attempts at cheerleading didn't detract from the exertions of my friend in the gold sequined jacket, who was president of student council in our former life. The other guy was president of the class. Which one of them do you think is a retired rear admiral? And which one was a neurosurgeon? I'm sure both of them are sorry I have a blog. The demure lady in the background begged me ahead of time not to mention her. Ooops.

To Eat or Not to Eat is Never a Question

2011-10-17T15:03:00.002-05:00

Most of the world has post mortems. This is a post prandial. While my other classmates may have come to our 50th high school reunion last weekend to engage in lively conversation and revel in the camaraderie, I mainly showed up for the food. Food is associated with all events in my life -- especially when the food or the event is particularly good or particularly bad. There's almost no recall when my food/event experience has been in between.
The gastronomic highlight of the long, difficult twenty-four hours I spent birthing my first child without anesthesia was the tray of four-star hospital food in the recovery room -- artificially flavored strawberry jello, canned vanilla pudding, watery cottage cheese with canned pineapple on top, a carton of milk, and a plastic cup of reconstituted orange juice -- all of which I inhaled like a starving dog. My second child only took five hours and I have no recollection of food at all.
Two beautiful wedding receptions are forever etched in my memory because one had the best cake I ever tasted, most notable for its light, butterscotch filling. The other left a permanent mark because the cake must have been baked during the Roosevelt administration. Clearly the fancy New York hotel where the reception was held didn't know you can't freeze pastry indefinitely. Slapping buttercream on the top and sides won't mask that distinctive, moldy flavor.
The craft service table [a production term which means snacks to civilians] can make or break the success of a movie/ad shoot. One of the first things anybody talks about on the set isn't the actors, the director, or the script, it's the quality of the craft table food. They can have donut holes, chips and dip, everything from fancy pretzels to Twinkles, sushi to soup, but no gold stars unless they've got Peanut M&Ms. The same goes for focus groups. I've spent hours and hours in dark rooms behind two-way glass watching fat people drink diet Coke and claim they only eat egg whites and never put sugar on their cereal. So there better be some good snacks in that room to keep my strength up. The finest testimonial for a focus group facility will always be, "They have great snacks." The best place is in Atlanta, by the way.
The tastiest meal I ever had, while shooting a commercial, was in Los Angeles after a very long, tedious day. Most of us were expecting the La La Land treatment, which usually means going out to a fancy restaurant, or having a caterer bring in stuff you don't recognize, or just ordering Japanese/Thai/Mexican food. Imagine our surprise when the producer had a Thanksgiving dinner brought in -- the works -- turkey, dressing, green beans, yams, mashed potatoes, homemade gravy, and cranberry sauce with pecan and pumpkin pies for dessert. I think it was April. We were in heaven. In the land of sushi and green tea, that midwestern comfort food really hit the spot.
So, for me, while my 50th high school reunion had much to recommend it, the food will be what I remember most. In fact, this entry is taking shape about 24 hours after eating the final food offering, a truly uninspiring breakfast buffet at the headquarters hotel that I may just forget about.
Originally touted as a Sunday Brunch, the 9:30 AM start suggested otherwise. So no chance of pasta or any kind of salad, quiche, or frittatas. This was going to be eggs and bacon stuff, maybe with pancakes/french toast/waffles. A girl can hope.
I'll mention that this repast was the third leg of an overpriced weekend that I bitched about HERE]. Considering that I didn't need a hotel room, because I live in the area, plus I don't drink alcohol, $165 for some hors d'hoeuvres one night and two other meals was excessive. In fact, if you only went to one event you still had to pay $165. Yes, I got a ball cap with our school colors and class year on it. Yes, I got a book called "Reflections" with my classmates' memories about high school and details of how they've spent their last fifty years. [No, I didn't contribute to it, but now they're doing an addendum, so I'm getting some pressure to write something.]
Back at the buffet, I chose the scrambled eggs because no pancakes or french toast was offered. No bacon or sausage either. Or cereal. Or yogurt. There was fruit -- but when I was in line, there was no sliced cantaloupe, watermelon, blueberries, or strawberries as one might expect -- just bowls filled with apples and oranges. You were left to slice and dice them yourself. Fortunately, there were some bananas so I took one. However, instead of making my own toast -- there was actually a toaster for the do-it-yourself-ers -- I took a blueberry muffin and some honey, picked up a bottle of 10% cranberry juice/90% water, and stuck a can of V8 in my purse for later.
I went back to make myself some tea, but decided to have some coffee instead. Like many people who don't embrace those roasted beans as their primary caffeine delivery system, I concocted a brew with half half & half and half de-caf Gevalia plus four or five, maybe even six raw sugars. I tend to eschew coffee in general, thus the addition of a large amount of cream and plenty of sugar, so it tasted like melted ice cream. However, the taste of the Gevalia, even though it had to wend its way through all that sweetness and moo-juice was surprisingly smooth and delicious. That coffee is now imprinted on the hotel reunion breakfast forever. The rest of it, not so much.
Our buffet dinner at the venerable lakefront club the night before was so-so. There were two food lines: one for pasta, the other for carved meat. The problem was that if you were in one line, no one told you that the other line had a completely different selection of food. For quality comparison, I was at a football banquet catered by Outback steakhouse that served a better buffet in the cafeteria of a high school. Plenty of their excellent steak or chicken for everybody. Rolls. Baked potatoes. Butter. Sour cream. And Caesar salad. And dessert. For a lot less than the fancy club that would never want me as a member and excluded a good portion of my classmates because they weren't the right religion or color back in those halcyon days of yesteryear.
Meanwhile, back at the party with three hundred senior citizens, I was hungry. I had already spent twenty minutes in a two-block long line, just to valet park my car, and suffered through a well-meant, but poorly executed tribute to our 107 dead classmates [one of them murdered by her husband], followed by a presentation honoring our Reunion Chairman For Life who is fighting cancer. So I was in a "Somebody feed me!" mood. I picked one of the lines and had a chef assemble me a plate with cooked chicken and mushrooms tossed with Alfredo sauce and poured over bow tie pasta. When I found out there was roast beef at the other table, I was sorely tempted, but I decided not to load up my purse for later.
There were other reunions with food during the 50th reunion weekend festivities. On Saturday afternoon, three or four of the different junior high schools we attended had separate gatherings. Since my group met from 2 to 4, I wondered if there would be any snacks or would they try to get out of serving anything because it was the middle of the afternoon. These are white people. We do stuff like that. What was I thinking? Of course our hostess served food. She served tasty cheeses, gourmet crackers, several kinds of spectacular dips and chips, plus homemade bundt cake and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies with all kinds of refreshments. I arrived a couple of minutes early and stayed late.
The best food I had all weekend. And it didn't cost me a thing.

In the Belly of the Bitch

2011-10-15T09:58:00.001-05:00

$165 for three events at my 50th high school reunion. Too much to pay for too little in return. The festivities have started with a Friday night meet and greet reception at the hotel. Next is a dinner at an exclusive club tonight. And finally, a brunch back at the hotel tomorrow morning. I'll whine again -- $165 is wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay too much to charge, if what I experienced last night is any indication.

First of all, there was a CASH bar. Really? So even a glass of wine or a bottle of beer wasn't included. Nevermind that I don't drink, it's the principle. Second my hors d'hoeuvres haul was a total of four little meatballs on toothpicks, and a quarter sized crab thing dipped in a sauce. I also had a tiny plate of antipasto from the hors d'hoeuvres table. Not that I wouldn't have gnoshed on more, but more wasn't offered by the waiters walking around in their black jackets.

Assume $80 per person for the dinner we're having this evening and slightly over $40 for the food at each of the other events. So last night, just one of the four meatballs I had cost me $8 if you factor in the crab thing. And the antipasto was maybe worth about $.50. Little pieces of vegetables, sliced black olives, canned artichokes, one-inch wedges of lunch meat and oil. Make that $.25.

You can get a decent -- make that splendid -- meal at a nice restaurant for $80 a person. At that price, tonight's upcoming dinner should also include libations, even if I won't be having any. Which is another thing. People who don't drink always get soaked. Regardless, the way things are going, I'm sure the main course will be some kind of dressed up chicken. And the most anybody can expect to accompany this feast will be a glass of two-buck Chuck, if they're lucky.

I've allotted $40 for tomorrow's brunch. Seriously, $40 for brunch? At a suburban hotel? You gotta be kidding. But I probably got a reunion goody bag, right? Sure. A Whole Foods plastic grocery bag with my nametag in it.

I mention all this high finance because my girlfriend is in town for her reunion and they're having similar events -- a Friday night meet and greet, Saturday dinner, and Sunday brunch. So we've been comparing costs. She went to a fancy private academy. I went to a public school. And she's only being charged $60.

Last night I found out that the reunion committee treasurer is taking a two week trip to Europe at the end of the month. Coincidence? I think not.

And the horse you rode in on. . .

2011-10-13T01:22:00.003-05:00

I've been dodging the cops lately. Nothing a new sticker that I haven't had time to purchase wouldn't prevent. But the fact is I've been turning into alleys and taking detours at the sight of a police car for fear that one of them will accidentally notice that February 2006 seems a bit last year. And since my need to keep tabs on law enforcement is generally limited to appreciating a man in uniform, except when it comes to wellness checks, I have been surprised to discover that the new cop cars can operate in stealth mode. Their silhouettes no longer display the telltale horned roof of a law enforcement vehicle.
Whereas old school cop cars had those honking huge garbage pail lights on top of their squad cars, the new ones are so low profile you might think the car behind you is sporting a luggage rack, until it starts flashing red and blue lights. On a couple of occasions, while trying to determine whether a car was a cop or not, I've stared into the rear view mirror so long and hard I nearly caused an accident. An ironic twist I'm sure you can appreciate.
Unfortunately, I briefly let down my guard on a side trip to Lincoln Park Zoo after work on one of the gorgeous October days we've been having lately. Instead of parking so there were cars in front and behind me, I carelessly pulled up behind a car without making sure there was something the size of an SUV covering my rear. After a walk around the zoo, I still had time to kill before dinner with my daughter, so I sat in the car checking my email before driving over to her neighborhood. Meanwhile, I kept my eyes on the rear view and side mirrors just in case a cruiser decided to slow down to check parked cars for transgressions.
The problem was that I was checking for a police VEHICLE.
Not a police HORSE. All of a sudden I looked up and the large red rump of a police HORSE was standing by the driver's side window of my car. The officer on board was straight out of Central Casting. In a heartbeat, I was looking for someplace to dump the thirty years I'd lived before he was born.
He was waiting to talk to me. So I rolled down the window and exclaimed how nice it was to see a policeman on a horse so up close and personal. I'm nothing if not capable of stating the obvious.
Smiling at me, he couldn't have been nicer or more polite, when he informed me that he noticed my sticker was expired. Traveling at the speed of a walking horse he was able to see a lot of things a cruiser going by at 30 MPH might miss. Busted. But I didn't see a ticket book out. So I kept up the snappy patter, thanking him for telling me, as he eyeballed my other stickers to see if they were current, which they were. I quickly apologized and said I had two cars, as if having two cars was a valid excuse, and finished with the most unbelievable crap I've ever thrown, "This didn't happen until I started to dye my hair blond." He smiled that smile cops smile when they know that the b.s. you're shoveling is starting to get deep. And went on his way.
I had dodged a bullet I didn't see coming. Nothing left to do but finish checking email, put my computer away, start the car, and head toward my daughter's apartment. The horse with its armed rider was only about 1/2 a mile down the road and I easily caught up with them. As I slowed down to pass, the officer turned to look at me, smiled, and waved. I smiled, too. And waved back.

Three Days to Go

2011-10-12T00:18:00.001-05:00

Somebody's bringing their guitar to the 50th reunion. I think they're coming from California, so this is a real commitment, which means we're one step closer to actually doing this singing thing Saturday Night. Sheesh. Two doctors, a professor/poet, a former National Geo photographer, an opera singer, a retired United Captain/Rear Admiral and me, the ad writer. What should we name our group -- The Grateful We're Not Dead?
Why can't we be like other old people and just give it a rest? Sit around and get a gander at the sunset with a cuppa tea? Or watch the sun come up on the beach over Lake Michigan? I may just do the sunrise thing by myself. I'm in one of those moods. Not quite melancholy. Not quite at peace with myself.
Sometime on the weekend, I'll go to the beach where I met and fell in love with my first boyfriend. I was only fourteen, but I was in love with him for years before he even asked me for a date. Life intervened, and when I went looking for him again decades later, I discovered he had died at forty-two from a malaria seziure, contracted during a mysterious mission in Africa. Years before, he had told me that the CIA had recruited him when he was at Dartmouth. I wasn't ever supposed to tell anyone. Ooops. He probably got recruited because he was bi-lingual, having lived in Peru as a boy, when his father was an engineer for a mining company. Blew the tips of his fingers off in a mining accident, too -- I was always a sucker for guys like that. The ones with scars and other evidence of put up or shut up. But in a good way.
I'll load up my iPod with sappy old songs from back in the day, plus some Bonnie Raitt, go for a walk along the shore, then come back and sit on a bench under a tree. I can watch the waves, kick the sand, and see the sun come up. And get philosophical. Reunions do that to me. Which is why I'm only lukewarm about going. I don't feel like considering what I've done with my life. Or how I'm going to spend the rest of it. Reflections have a way of putting the mirror to some decisions I wish I could take back.
The good news is that my bff of 35 years is also here from California for HER 50th high school reunion. She went to some private academy on the north side of Chicago. They had just under 100 people in their class. I was in the suburbs and we had almost 1000 people in my class. Over 50 per cent of her alums are coming to celebrate. Only 30 per cent of mine will be there. Of course, in her case that's about 50 people. In my class, that's about 300. They've lost about seven or eight classmates. Our list of dead is past 100 I think.
Her former psychedelic-rocker-turned-webmaster-to-the-movie-industry husband tracked down a bunch of the number one tunes from when we were in high school. He burned three CDs that include a lot of Beach Boys, Everly and Righteous Brothers, Duane Eddy -- over eighty songs in all. Can't wait to blast a few tunes in the lobby of the hotel where everybody is staying. Good times.
Yeah. Maybe it will be.

D-Day Minus Four. Or Is It Plus Four?

2011-10-10T19:28:00.001-05:00

Thirty years ago I went to my 20th high school reunion and hooked up with an old friend. To make a long story short, after three years of intermittent cross country "dating" we had a scandalous falling out. So scandalous, the last time we spoke was seventeen years ago, when he contacted me, apologized, and we went our separate ways.
Not that we were the only ones in my class to be caught behaving badly. Five years later, at the 25th, another couple of classmates, two people you wouldn't expect to hook up in a million years, managed to find common ground in a common bed, resulting in a child. But even though they never married, they stayed together for over twenty-three years. And only recently broke up.
I know because I follow those two on facebook. Separately. But only one of them is coming to the reunion. Rats. Several years ago, Judy Markey, a Sun-Times newspaper columnist, wrote about our class's propensity for outre behavior. Especially among the previously straight arrow types. She pretty much hung out our stained laundry to dry in public. In a class of 939 people, that may be our only claim to fame.
Recently, after not hearing from my former friend for all those years, he called to say that he and his partner of ten years would be coming to the reunion. He looked me up on our reunion website, discovered I had a blog, read a few entries, and thought he should let me know he was coming. He'd read an entry where I had taken another classmate to task for looking me up on the website, taking me to lunch, and failing to tell me he was maritally impaired. So I think it was smart to contact me. Like when a defense lawyer brings up his client's bad behavior, so the prosecution can't use it against him. Something like that.
Meanwhile, I was curious about his girlfriend. Finding someone simpatico at sixty, when your sexy is probably not coming back anytime soon, is like finding a hundred dollar bill on the ground. Doesn't happen. After reaching the age when gray hair and hip replacements start breathing down your neck, I think it's best to track down the old flames, people you knew when you were young and fresh baked. They're usually wearing the rose colored glasses of early memories of you. They can get past the changes that have taken place since your stomach was flat, your hair had color, and your private parts, male or female, pointed to the sky.
With that in mind, it makes perfect sense that his late-in-life true love is someone he knew in high school -- his first wife, in fact. He's had three. They ran into each other at social gatherings a couple of times following 9-11, and their high school and college spark was rekindled. It also helps that neither one of them looks any the worse for wear.
So why did he contact ME now? I sure hope not to give me the good news about his happy life. Although he did. Nope, he was wondering if I would be interested in getting a little group together to spoof our high school classmates with a skit or some songs at the reunion. Of course, I said no, I wasn't interested. I'm sure I said no. At least I think I said no. I must have said no, since I wasn't even planning to attend the festivities.
And yet, here I am putting the final touches on some parody lyrics for our school fight song -- with lots of references to oldness and grayness. And I'm planning to revert to my high school self, behavior-wise, for fifteen minutes of fame on Saturday night. Joined by five or six other people I haven't seen in 50 years, who performed with me in our school's shows, and said they were game.
There isn't enough alcohol to make this a good idea. Oh, crap, I don't drink.

A Note To Creepy Guys On The Internet

2011-10-08T16:46:00.004-05:00

I noticed that more than half the hits to my blog were because people were searching for variations on Playgirl Centerfold, which was in the headline of an entry I wrote about Scott Brown's acceptance speech, right after his election as senator.
The countries represented in my traffic stats, besides the US, were just not very representative of Mrs. Linklater's normal demographic, which is to say women, especially those of a certain age, and a couple of guys with bad attitudes and a warped sense of humor. I was getting a boatload of hits from boy-controlled countries like Saudi Arabia -- as if they would ever embrace Mrs. L's charming repartee. Plus lots of Asian countries -- the kind that don't have to speak English because searching for porn needs no translation.
I only have myself to blame. Last year I wrote about the recently-elected senator from Massachusetts who, as a young man, posed buck naked in a magazine, when he was trying to make extra money to pay for school. [Isn't that what strippers usually say?]
After his election, he said some inappropriate things about his daughters, which made me wonder how much of a train wreck he would be when he got to Washington. That plus his nude pictures in a magazine caused a red flag to start flying. But I didn't know what for. Turns out he was molested as child. Funny how many people who are willing to pose naked have often had some kind of inappropriate sexual history.
Anyway, I don't feel like linking you to the article about the senator and the picture of him posing in his birthday suit. I'm sure you'll understand. Mainly because I'm sick of getting artificially inflated hits on my blog because of it. I will also change the headline so that men who are searching for the satisfaction that dares not speak its name, while surfing the internet, won't be directed to my blog archives any more.

I hope.

Lonely? Here's Some Numbers to Call.

2011-10-07T19:11:00.002-05:00

While you're waiting for my next scintillating entry, you might want to jot down and/or re-post this list of useful phone numbers I got from Blurbomat, if you're in the U.S. that is. My South Korean, Russian, Chinese, Australian, UK, Saudi, German, Canadian, Dutch, and Israeli readers may not find them quite so useful. Especially since I tricked them into coming here with that deceitful headline. Sooooo sorry.

Depression Hotline: 1-630-482-9696

Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433

LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255

Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386

Sexuality Support: 1-800-246-7743

Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438

Rape and Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673

Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272

Runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000

Exhale: After Abortion Hotline/Pro-Voice: 1-866-4394253

You think Tiger Woods has problems?

2011-10-02T22:21:00.004-05:00

I'm not usually the go-to person for young people who need advice. I'm here for laughs and chocolate chip cookies. On the rare occasions when I've been consulted, my suggestions have been universally ignored, so I no longer feel constrained to impart a thoughtful, considerate response to inquiries from the youngsters.
All of which brings me to today's topic -- a truly smart, athletic young man I've known, since he was just out of diapers, got fired from his brutal Wall Street job two weeks ago.
Brutal, because his life was circumscribed by endless work, which, in my opinion, could never, ever be offset by the size of his yearly bonus. Brutal, because he worked seven days a week, year round. Brutal, because his bosses handed out assignments at 10:30 PM on Friday nights, due the next morning. Brutal because the only gold at the end of this sordid rainbow was greenbacks, not job satisfaction.
In case you missed the cinema versions of Wall Street, making a difference in the world, saving lives, and giving back -- the kind of meaningful altruism that gives your life purpose and makes it worthwhile -- is not anywhere on the job description for a Master of the Universe. Greed is good, but money is everything.
He's only thirty years old. But for the last two years, in pursuit of becoming rich enough to retire at forty and play golf, he's missed a huge chunk of his real life. Instead of going to a film festival or having dinner at some tres chic bistro with one of New York's good looking women, or just hanging out with the guys, he has been coming home from work at 2:00 or 3:00 AM on Saturday nights, only to be expected back in four hours.
His one relief from the relentless demands of this f**ked up career path was running five miles through the streets of New York in the middle of the night to burn up some of the frustration. The good news is that he lost his football weight and looks like a runner now.
   He didn't ask, but I told him being rich wasn't an admirable life goal. I also told him he was going to turn forty, not be rich, and hate what he was doing. So forget the money. Figure out a way to follow your passion. And take time to play golf now, not later.
I didn't hear he'd lost his job until a couple of days ago. I'm out of that loop now. I did text him two weeks ago to get the zip code for his address, so I could entertain his overworked butt with a funny letter. He texted back with an oblique comment that he might not be living there at the end of the month, but I just assumed he'd found another place to live. He didn't lose his job because he wasn't competent. One of the bank's clients, who relied on him very much, offered him a position with their company. But there were payment deferments and he had to move to another country. Actually, how bad could that be? In the end, it was about money again. Not enough up front. So no go. Money seems to decide everything.
Determined to find a reason for what really happened, or just why, he came back to work the day after they fired him so his boss could sling some b.s. about the decision. There wasn't a truly meaningful answer. He was told it wasn't about his work, blah blah blah. I'm sure the conversation went something like a bad breakup, when one of you insists, "It's not about you; it's me."
Some day he'll realize that the real reason might have been as stupid as he's single and didn't have a family to support. Intelligent, aggressive young men are a dime a dozen on Wall Street. In the end, it really isn't about any of them, personally; it's about the money.
For what it's worth, an insider told him he wasn't even on the list of people to be fired. That group apparently got pink slipped in the morning. He was saved for late in the afternoon. Purges on Wall Street are happening regularly. He was a casualty of the continuing banking fallout from 2008. His bank is still in deep do-do. He was expendable. That, and he has never listened to me. Have I mentioned I told him to play golf?
For a long time we had been like family. I was his crazy adopted aunt; he was the son I never had. He grew up playing sports, guided by a superstar dad and mom. Football was our common ground. I played a lot of sports myself, but I follow football like a construction worker with season tickets and a 60" plasma in his man cave. So even though I'm old enough to be his grandmother, we had plenty to talk about.
A multi-sport athlete and a natural born leader, he quarterbacked his high school team to their first state championship game in 20 years. Do something sports related with your life became my mantra. He lettered in baseball and could compete with his state champ cousins mano a mano in tennis. I suggested that he could be a tennis pro at a club. You can't make Wall Street money doing that. Okay, then how about golf. You love golf. So be a club pro. The money thing. It helps that he's smart, a Phi Beta Kappa from a top school [in only three years. majoring in micro-economics]. He earned similar accolades in MBA school. Hey, he could run his own sporting goods business. Or sell golf equipment.
He loved it. Why hadn't I suggested that before? Haaa. Kidding.
Hey, you're still young, I would say, when he was still young, you could quit whatever you're doing and try to make the golf tour.

I even got Troy Aikman to help me out a few years ago. I needed some background on Troy's career for a client video, so I bought a coffee table book he wrote about himself. On the set, I asked the ex-quarterback, a scratch golfer, to dedicate the book to my young friend, whom I'll call "Tex." He wrote, "Tex. Play golf. Troy Aikman."

The only feedback I ever got about my relentless attempts to get "Tex" to do something he loved instead of something for money was that he told me he often thought about what I'd said about golf.

Meanwhile, let's review this past decade of his life. He went to a brainiac university so he could be the team's quarterback, but it turned out the coach didn't want him to play quarterback. He majored in a subject that would be useful in his career goal of being rich, despite the fact that he never really liked his major. So he quit football and graduated in only three years, just to get out of school sooner.
At that point, he could have taken a year off to start playing golf seriously. I even gave him some contacts in Florida. But he got his first job with a big consulting firm in finance. I didn't think he was having much fun in the consulting biz, so I thought there was a chance he might consider golf. But he went to MBA school instead, so he could get that job on Wall Street. The good news was that his second college experience was more fun. He attended a football power and even had a lovely girlfriend who was in law school there. But they hit a snag over religion. She was religious. Him, not so much. They broke up after he graduated.
What a great time to start playing golf I thought.
But he was determined to be Wall Street's bitch. He let her harness him up and she rode him hard. Now, after three years, the economy has spit him out. Sure he got some good bonuses out of it. His debt is gone. He showed he can play with the big boys, but now he's sitting on the side of the road.

What if he'd just played golf instead?

Stop the World and Let Him Get Off

2011-10-02T15:53:00.001-05:00

Got one of those phone calls from a sibling today -- the oldest of my three brothers. The alcoholic one. Also the pot smoking one. He hardly drinks anymore because he lacks the money. On the other hand, I'm not sure what he's smoking. Regardless, he might be dry, but he's still an alcoholic. And a dope head. With a Stanford law degree.
Would I please call back because this former golden child was making arrangements for the end of his life as we know it and wanted to be sure there was a place for his ashes in the family plot. I called back and asked if my dying relative would be exiting the world soon, thinking perhaps we were dealing with an aggressive form of cancer. I even had a moment, however brief, of sympathy.
"No, I'm not dying; I'm being murdered," I was informed.
"When is this happening?" I asked, curious but no longer concerned.
"It's happening now."
"Even as we speak? How?"
"Microwaves."
"Microwaves?"
"From directed-energy weapons." I should mention he wasn't drunk or stoned when he told me this.
You can read about the latest iteration of aluminum foil hats HERE.
But knowing the person at the source of this little drama, I realized that the years of Kahlua and coffee with a side of hash were the real murderers, rendering what was left of his brain and personality unto mush, one doobie and liter of hootch at a time. He continued to give me the details of his impending demise, describing a prowler who showed up at night outside the place where he lives [which is one step up above a cardboard box], but disappears when he goes outside. Apparently his activism [not sure about what] has upset some woman who sent the prowler to beam microwaves through the walls at his head and body.
"I am having a lot of symptoms now. My stomach hurts and I have headaches."
"How much time do you have left?" I asked, pretending I cared.
"About thirty days."
"Thirty days, huh. And what happens if you live beyond thirty days?" I couldn't let that one go. But I didn't finish the thought, which would have been expressed as, "Will you consider that you've got full blown paranoia at that point? And have yourself confined for your own safety and the safety of everyone in a five state region?"
Such a shame we have no choice in the relatives we get stuck with. And another shame the death penalty won't ever be applied to my brother's pedophile cub scout leader.
While we're at it, a hearty headbutt to all you people who think marijuana should be legalized.

Saturday Six Episode 390

2011-10-01T15:28:00.001-05:00

The Saturday Six was launched around 390 weeks ago over at Patrick's Place, which began as an AOL "journal," a relic of that Jurassic Era email service, dating back to 2003 or 2004. We had a tight little group of fair to middling writers until a brouhaha over AOL posting ads on our entries, for which we were not compensated. Most of us left in a huff and came over here to Blogger in protest. [Patrick took a classier route and his blog is full of bells and whistles Blogger doesn't offer.] We like to think our exit expedited the demise of AOL's foray into blogs, since they're all gone now. The internets ate 'em. Meanwhile, The Saturday Six continues to this day, a tribute to Patrick's endless supply of topics that need answers. Anyone can play. Check out the regs and rules HERE. I haven't played in a long time, but I thought I would today.

1. Describe your favorite old portrait of yourself: how old were you when the portrait was made and what were you doing?

I was 25 and working as a copywriter for an ad agency. The art director on the account used me as a placeholder to show the client the concept. I was supposed to represent a 25-year-old wife and mother in a head shot, wearing clothes [like a 25-year-old wife and mother] with my hair pulled back. When they were choosing a model for the real shot, the client asked the agency to just use me. So I got two free trips to New York with fancy rooms at the Plaza, along with some great shots by Carl Fischer, the photographer for the Virginia Slims' campaign. The first shoot, where this photo was taken, I look inappropriately naked. I had on a tube top, but who can tell? The 25-year-old wife and mother I was supposed to portray looked more like a 25-year-old single girl who'd been dancing the night away. An accusation I can neither confirm nor deny. But some day, I knew I'd be almost 68-years-old and glad I had the picture taken. Who knew it would be used for an answer to The Saturday Six in a blog on the internet?

2. Of the photos of people you have on display in your home, what percentage of them would you estimate have you in the photo?

Easy. None. I don't have any pictures out and about. Except for a couple of portraits of my daughters that I took. The rest of the pix are all in albums or stored. But if you look in those albums, I'm everywhere.

3. Which do you prefer in a portrait in terms of background: a solid color, a textured color, or a very scenic background?

Depends on the location. If the background looks good, I'll use it. I have a headshot of my older daughter that I love, with the wild print of a Hawaiian sarong hanging on her bedroom wall behind her, creating a mosaic of color. Colors and textures are both good. Closed blinds are neutral and easy. Naturally, a good lens helps. My favorite was my Nikon 85 mm. It couldn't take a bad picture. And I got all the credit. Then somebody stole it. And I'm getting by with a zoom.

4. Which do you prefer in a portrait: the subject smiling, looking serious or looking like they’re in thought?

My goal is to make anybody look their most natural, whatever that may be. Smiling usually looks best, but smiling like you don't have a broom up your butt can be hard to capture. Children come up with some of the most awkward, forced, and stupid smiles I've seen. So I get little kids to make faces at me. They usually start to laugh at themselves and I can get a good natural smile without too much effort.

5. Which do you prefer in a portrait: the subject making eye contact with the lens or not making eye contact with the lens?

Looking at the lens is nice, but I got a great picture of some friends at their wedding. And they're gazing at each other.

6. You see a portrait of someone — male or female — who is in exceptionally good physical shape: how likely is that photo to make you take action to get in better shape yourself?

Zero. My first thought when I see young cheese or beefcake is what'll they look like when they're not 30 anymore? Of course, if it's a hot guy I'd think about jumping him. Only in my mind of course. Anything thing else at my age and I'd have to worry about getting slammed with an order of protection.

Gay or Un-Gay?

2011-09-29T22:26:00.000-05:00

In our polarized, my way or the highway world, there's an astonishing new app for mothers who wake up each morning wondering, "Is my son gay?" If successful, this annoying bit of Androidian asininity may spawn a whole series of apps for inept mothers. From "Should I be an Avon Lady?" to "How can I tell if my husband stays up all night watching porn?
"Is my son gay?" offers a series of questions right out of a dog-eared Freudian primer that are intended to help a hapless maternal parental unit determine -- once and for all -- whether to buy Hugh Jackman's version of Oklahoma or anything Metallica. Boxers or briefs? Mixed greens with arugula and endive or a wedge of iceberg? New Balance or Ferragamo?
Here are the Kafkaesque questions perfectly timed for the coming Apocalypse, aka, the 2012 election. I have not made any of these up. In fact, you can read the article for yourself HERE, but don't come whining to me afterward.

1. Does he like to dress up nicely? Does he pay close attention to his outfits and brand names?
2. Does he like football?
3. Before he was born did you wish he would be a girl?
4. Has he ever gotten into or participated in a fight?
5. Does he read sports magazines?
6. Does he have a best friend
7. Does he like team sports?
8. Is he prudish/modest?
9. Does he like diva singers?
10. Does he spend a long time in the bathroom
11. Does he have a tongue, nose or ear piercing
12. Does he spend time getting ready before being seen in public?
13. Have you asked yourself questions about your son's sexual orientation?
14. Are you divorced?
15. Does he like musical comedies?
16. Has he introduced you to a girlfriend ever?
17. Is the father (you) very strict or authoritarian with his son?
18. In your family is the father absent?
19. Was he shy as a child?
20. Is he close to his father?

Navel Gazing

2011-09-28T20:26:00.003-05:00

Someone wrote in her blog about pissing away our allotted time, as if it were something borrowed like a mortgage. She went on to postulate that from where she sat, at the age of 62, her rent will soon be coming due.

The idea of borrowed time caused me a moment of contemplation, which is a lifetime for me, since nano seconds are usually the extent of my short attention span. Just exactly who has lent me this time? Does he look like Morgan Freeman? And to whom will I be making my payment? One of those people in a toll booth?

Then, like dominoes falling, my thoughts continued to cascade, causing me to wonder, when someone dies young, does their allotted time get banked for someone else, since they only used part of it? Perhaps we are all on a list, based on how much time we have left in our lives. When our time's up, do we go to the top of the list and hope someone dies really young so we can have their remaining time and have a chance to become the oldest person in the world? Or do we have to earn the spare time somehow with multiple good deeds or years of honest effort? And could we pass on the offer and just die when it's our time?

On the other hand, those leftover years might be divided equally among family members without anybody realizing it, except when they all get into their nineties. I can also see unused minutes going into a huge pot to be divvied up once a year in some kind of a worldwide lottery. They could call it the Time's Up lottery. And it would work something like the Mega Millions or the Power Ball. But I don't know where you'd get a ticket or who'd run the thing. I do know that your money would be no good. Tickets would only be purchased by investing some of your time. Perhaps that happens anyway.

The movie, which will no doubt be made, would star Tom Hanks as the accountant in charge of the leftover lifetimes. Who else? He keeps track of how much extra time there is at any given time.

He would report to a board of directors led by Tom Selleck, Tom Cruise, Tommy Lee Jones, and Tom Sizemore, because I just thought that guys named Tom would make it easy for people to remember who was in the movie. They meet once year in Las Vegas to decide who gets more time to live. Their decisions would be based first on the luck of the draw. Since they're in Las Vegas, each member of the board picks a card. The Tom with the highest card wins the right to decide how many people get some leftover time. He also gets to decide what his decision will be based on. Say Tommy Lee Jones picks the winning card this year. He could decide that 100,000 lucky people can divide up all the leftover time among themselves for that year. But those 100,000 people can only have years of extra time added to their lives if they wear a Size 11 shoe. Or XL latex gloves. Or they use a c-pap machine. Think of the requirements. It's a bureaucrat's dream.

Speaking of dreams, it's about time I woke up out of this one. The ninth season of MI5 is waiting for me.

How Did Anybody Hook Up Before Facebook?

2011-09-25T15:55:00.002-05:00

Tonight I'm having dinner with two guys I hooked up with via computer dating in 1965. Yep. You read that right. As computers go, that's the Jurassic Era. Mark Zuckerberg's PARENTS were barely out of diapers.
Operation Match was started by two Harvard lads who may be dead now for all I know. [Ooops, not dead yet! I found them. See link below.] Their minions went around the country, hitting the college campuses and downtown bars frequented by the young and nubile, handing out questionnaires to anyone with $3.00. The good news was that chances of meeting an unemployed cab driver were slim and none at that stage.
We filled out the questionnaires for ourselves, then did it all over again for the fabulous attributes we wanted in our ideal dates. Afterward, an anonymous mainframe sorted it all out, then mailed out a printout of the people we matched up with. Or "with whom we were matched," if you want to nitpick.
In case you think I'm just making all this stuff up, you can read a recent article about the guys who started Operation Match HERE. Here's ANOTHER. One of the founders is now a judge in D.C. Depending on how good I look, I'll post some pictures from tonight later. Meanwhile, here's how we matched up back in the day. Who needs Facebook?

Kweku Adoboli's Ass is Grass

2011-09-24T15:58:00.001-05:00

Quick! Do you have any idea who Kweku Adoboli is? Probably not off the top of your head. He isn't in the NFL, NBA, NHL, MLB, and he doesn't work for AOL or AIG or AARP. If you're the average working Joe or Jane in the United States, chances are good he has never ever been a blip on your radar. And, given the demographics of my readers, this may well be the first and last time you ever read his name.
Go on, guess who he is. Yes, he's African. Brilliant deduction by the way, given his distinctive moniker. But no, he's not the dictator of a yet to be named country. Or a guerilla chieftain responsible for millions murdered in the genocides of Darfur, Somalia or Rwanda. Nor is he a Nobel Laureate for medicine or physics or a delegate to the UN. Although his father once was.
Let's face it, unless you are the former CEO of UBS and you just submitted your resignation because of Mr. Adoboli, you probably haven't got a clue. But Kweku Adoboli may be the reason you're also out of a job in the not too distant future. His fraudulent manipulation of ETF's as a senior trader on the Delta One desk of UBS may be the reason you can't afford to send your kids to the colleges of their choice. He may be the reason you have to keep your car for an extra five years, the reason you no longer vacation out of the country, and the main reason your re-financed house loses even more of its value. In a round about way, a few years from now, he may even be the reason your marriage comes crashing down.
Kweku Adoboli might be the straw that broke the camel's bank in Europe this week. He may be the reason the world stands on the precipice of recession again. Depending on your investments, he may be why your retirement is now on hold. Or he may just be a scapegoat. No one expects you to connect the dots. I'm sure they hope you won't. After all, he was only playing with company money and there's still some left. Besides, no clients were harmed in the perpetration of this fraud. If you believe UBS.
In the 24/7 365 day world of global trading, the London-based Kweku [Kwek to his friends?], a 31-year-old native of Ghana, went rogue, as they say, costing UBS -- the huge Swiss bank with the increasingly ironic advertising slogan, "We Will Not Rest" -- a whopping 2.3 billion dollars in losses. The fact that he was able to hide his fiduciary chicanery [i.e., unauthorized trades and losses] from as far back as 2008 through this year, does not bode well for the world in general, and the survival of his bank in particular. I hate to say it, but I'm rooting for Kweku to take UBS down with him. The CEO already stepped down. And a couple of Kweku's co-workers have quietly exited. I so hope that the rest of the bank isn't too far behind. A girl can dream, can't she?
My favorite quote about this debacle is from a WSJ article -- "The losses raised questions among industry executives about supervision at the bank, as well as the ability of regulators to police such activity."
I think those questions have been asked and answered. And not for the first time.

Every Day Is An Adventure

2011-09-23T11:56:00.001-05:00

Here's why I like to get out of the house from time to time. Besides taking out the garbage.

I was working with my video editor editing, when we stopped a moment to take a break. At that point, someone nearby asked if we liked the taste of coconut. If I had been at home alone, this probably wouldn't have happened. Yes, I said, I do like coconut. [Not as much as chocolate, but that wasn't the question.] My editor said he liked coconut, too.

As evidence of my newfound proclivity for all things coconutty, I should mention a recent vending machine purchase of a Mounds bar in lieu of a Snickers or Twix as proof that my enjoyment of coconut has been on the rise. I even found myself counting out my nickels and dimes, singing "Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't. Almond Joy's got nuts. Mounds don't." So imagine my surprise when she produced not a coconut candy bar, a coconut macaroon, a piece of coconut cake, or even a coconut shrimp appetizer, but a can of LaCroix infused with natural coconut flavor. I certainly wasn't expecting a beverage.

And she offered one to each of us.

I'll put it in the refrigerator so it'll be cold by lunchtime, I said. Try putting some coconut flavored rum in it, she suggested, slyly. Suddenly, I flashed back to my experience with coquitos, the tasty Puerto Rican Christmas beverage that starts with egg yolks, coconut milk, and coconut cream, and gets its high octane from rum. I remember wondering why this flavored egg nog was being served in such a tiny glass. Too late, of course.

So the coconut rum sounded tasty, but, despite my coquito experience, I don't drink sufficient amounts of rum [or alcohol in general] to justify the expense. Spending money on an entire bottle of coconut flavored rum just for the thrill of adding a single cap to a glass of LaCroix didn't seem worth the cost. Unless someone else was buying. I can improvise with rum and coconut extracts. And not add any calories. A win-win.

I can't wait to let you know how the experiment went.

The End of Office Politics

2011-09-20T19:19:00.000-05:00

For someone who says she doesn't drink coffee, except as an ingredient in those milkshakes they call frappaccinos, I have a hard time explaining why the baristas all know me by name at my local Starbuck's.
Recently, one of them actually had my de-caf tall mocha hazelnut frap with whip started the moment I walked in the door. Also as a cone-wasser of their small, but potent lemon squares, I will often purchase a couple of these confections [$.50 off the second one btw] as a treat, if I happen to be in the store just before closing. Something to tide me over on the five-minute drive home. This often prompts the appearance of an extra one or two in the bag, another perk of becoming one of the regulars -- free leftovers.
It all started when Starbuck's got wifi. I now had an excuse to work outside of the house in an environment that offered more than trips to the fridge in my underwear. Then my town library got wifi and I suddenly had another option. But only after I got up the courage to return a book I'd borrowed in 1997, a tome I discovered during my once a decade routine of dusting the shelves. Unable to compute the amount I surely owed, I prepared myself to pay whatever it took to get in their good graces again. After telling them my very sketchy tale of woe, I was shocked to discover that they had no record of the book. Or me, for that matter. The card I handed them wasn't in the system either. So I got a new card, and they accepted the library book as a donation. All because of wifi. I'm a wifi regular at their "cafe" now, a vending machine room at best, but paradise as libraries go.
I've had the same experience with FedEx Office the company that ate Kinko's. The night crew knows me so well they'll ask where I've been, if I haven't stopped by at least a couple of times a week. I'll often go there to work after 9:00 PM because they're open 24 hours, seven days a week -- except on Labor Day, it turns out. And I'm almost always the only customer in there, a benefit of living in the suburbs, assuming you like having the place to yourself and aren't there to meet the love of your life. The printers and copiers are mine all mine. Not one minute of waiting. And if they run out of the snacks I like -- cheese Pringles -- somebody will check in the back to see if they've got more. Try asking any of the "co-workers" to do that during the day.
I have also added Subway, Panera, and McDonald's to my worldwide offices. One of the sandwich makers at Subway gave me a free cookie a few weeks ago, just because I asked. Fast food joints are just another office for a freelancer. Free from politics and people sucking up for promotions. A place to write copy, update websites, even skype. All for the cost of an Egg McMuffin or a 6-inch sweet onion teriyaki chicken sandwich. P.S., a Starbuck's barista just gave me a receipt left by a customer. It lets me go online, take a survey and get a code for a free beverage next time I'm there. I can do that.
Got any other "office locations" I should look into?

Water World

2011-09-18T15:55:00.002-05:00

Clearly, I live in a town that hires people who don't know shit about how runoff from one person's brodingnagian castle can turn all the homes around them into disaster areas in a storm.
However, for the low, low price of $8K -- that's $8,000 fahrenheit -- the floodwater from the runoff caused by the construction of the huge houses behind me can be alleviated. Turns out, instead of locating catch basins in the middle of the properties so excess water from the roof could be collected and sent to the street, the catch basins were positioned at the back of the properties, right next to my yard, so the excess water flows downhill -- right toward me.
The water fills up the catch basins and overflows into my yard and my window wells, then cascades like Niagara Falls into my basement. A landscape architect I called came by to give me the heartstopping estimate. This solution entails the installation of a buried 18-inch pipe leading to a sistern across the back of my yard, which then leads to another pipe and another sistern in the back of my neighbor's yard, and so on and so on, through the backs of all the other yards until our neighborhood pipes reach the pipes of the village street sewers.
But -- and it's not a good but -- in order to perform this engineering feat, all the houses on the block have to agree to the plan. And they each have to pony up $8,000 like me. Yep. We victims get to correct a problem caused by the village's incompetent engineers and the greedy builders who continue to construct these monster homes.

My first reaction was that the houses behind us should be paying for this solution. Duh. Naturally, this being the village from hell, the owners of said houses are under absolutely no obligation to make amends for the oceans of rain water which spew off their runway-sized slabs of concrete onto our properties. Nope. No obligation at all.

Change of Scenery

2011-09-18T15:33:00.002-05:00

Returning to Chicago on cheap, but rude, Spirit Airlines in August, I shot Flip cam videos of the unusual clouds gathering outside my window. Too bad you can't hear the deafening roar of the jet engines as we passed by the clumps of fluff. Oh, wait, I can upload a video I shot. Cosmic. Meanwhile, the screen shot from 35,000 feet up replaces the vast and soothing view of the manicured lawns at Cowley Manor, a lovely retreat in the Cotswolds, where my daughter and son-in-law had their wedding reception. No special reason for swapping out, just time for a change.

Welcome to My World

2011-09-15T13:46:00.004-05:00

Tonight is date night at Village Hall. It's the Open House to meet and greet members of the Storm Water Commission for an evening of bullhockey, as they unveil the exciting details of their 22-project flood management plan.
My street is slated for one of the 22 projects, number six on the countdown, I believe. Basically, we're going to get more sewer grates. The fact that we should have had more sewer grates installed when the curbs were added twenty years ago will be pointed out to the village by me and others in my neighborhood. It's also reason to keep expectations low.
I went. I'm back. I asked the following questions:
ME: It's going to cost around 22 million to execute this village-wide flood management plan. Who is going to pay for the individual improvements to our neighborhoods?
ANSWER: I don't know.
ME: Will the money be a grant, a bond issue, or do you already have the cash?
ANSWER: I don't know.
ME: You claim that my street hasn't had improvements to its infrastructure for fifty years. What about the improvements you already did to alleviate flooding twenty years ago? The ones you can see in these pictures I have right here. They didn't seem to help.
ANSWER: What improvements?
ME: How come this map has no indication of all the backyard flooding we complain about on my block?
ANSWER: What backyard flooding?
The grandfatherly person I talked to was a consultant for the company called in to make the flooding assessment for the village and determine which neighborhoods need work. He couldn't have been more uninformed.
And they didn't even serve refreshments.

High School Evidential

2011-09-13T18:16:00.004-05:00

This is proof that I made mistakes in high school. I was going through a pile of 50-year-old student newspapers looking for photos to embarrass classmates coming to our reunion this fall, and ta-da! I embarrassed myself instead. This photo is Exhibit A. Unless you were in high school with me 50 years ago, I bet -- I hope -- you can't tell which one of these wannabe suburban rock stars is me. [You get nothing for your efforts.]
This picture, which also made it into the yearbook, proves that sometimes you do things in high school that are half-baked. Then somebody gets it on film and five decades later, you're toast.
For our yearly student produced/written/directed/choreographed show called Lagniappe [which means "a little bit extra"in Creole], two of my pals and I decided we'd be the female version of the Everly Brothers -- the Averly Sisters, get it? [Boy, I crack myself up.] For four nights, we performed the high school white girl version of Little Richard's Tutti Fruitti to a live, paying audience. On purpose. In public. For some reason, our version of the tune became a hit among the pre-teen set. And we were invited to take our performance on tour to the graduation party at one of the local middle schools.
Naturally, since the Scarlet Letter was part of the curriculum, we cleverly wore a scarlet letter A on our racy sweatshirts, thinking we were so tantalizingly risque with our [supposedly] oblique reference to, um, pilgrim SEX. How double entendre of us. Until somebody's dad informed us that back in the days before prohibition, a couple of shady ladies known as the Everleigh Sisters actually ran a notorious brothel in Chicago called the Everleigh Club. So without knowing it, we had doubled the value of our double entendre.
Somewhere there's a picture of another short-lived high school singing group I was in called The High Five -- because the five of us were all over 5'7". At that time, "high five," as we know it today, hadn't made its way to the madras and circle pin set. But I like the idea that I may have enjoyed some very early ghetto cred, if only by accident.
Play that funky music, white lady.

The Reunion Chronicles -- The Pre-quel

2011-09-12T13:11:00.007-05:00

While you may have spent your high school years saving the roaches from your best doobies, someone in MY high school graduating class saved each and every one of the school newspapers from those fun-filled days of yesteryear. From posture pictures through gradumication.
How do I know this? Because, for a reason I have yet to fathom, she gave them all to me a few years ago. As Chairperson For Life of all our previous high school reunions, she just handed them to me one night and said, "Here, you take these." I know. My mistake for going to a reunion meeting.
I've been to every one of our reunions, 10th, 20th, 25th, and 40th. All except for the one we had for our 50th birthdays, which would have been our 33rd in reunion years. I chose not to go for reasons which I may write an entry about. If enough people beg me.
If I didn't live in the same area where I grew up, I wouldn't spend a dime to attend one of these shindigs. But for some reason, getting to a reunion for many of my other classmates is important. One of my high school friends, living in Wyoming, showed up at our 40th, totally bald from chemo, riding in a wheel chair, and hooked up to a bag of medication. She was dying of brain cancer and didn't want to miss a chance to say good bye. We had plenty of laughs, even though the humor was very black. At one point someone announced a future meeting for anyone interested in the next reunion. She asked if they could hold it sooner, since she wasn't going to be around much longer.
Perhaps my near perfect reunion attendance record was one reason for the newspaper handoff, since the more reunions you attend, the more crap they ask you to do. More likely, our Chairperson For Life heard that I never throw anything out. Or she thought I would have fun doing something suburban and decoupage-like with them. Perhaps in my spare time, she assumed I could concoct a toilet cover or decorative tabletop out of headlines like "Students begin work on Student Council election," "Parent-teacher dates set" or "Rocket built for contest." I have no clue.
Except for raising children, working, defrosting Stouffer's lasagne, and separating my garbage, I don't know why I've never set aside some quality time to do a creative project with these ancient relics of my past -- the dinosaur bones of the good old days, when I was 6' tall, weighed 126 pounds, and had nicknames like Stick, Dunker, Long Sam, and The Road Runner.
Speaking of which -- the good old days, not my nicknames -- I'm looking at an issue dated November 18, 1960, from the fall of my senior year. On the front page of this edition is a picture of June and Cully, the co-heads of the canned food drive, posing with a bunch of [surprise!] canned food. The first line of this riveting story starts out, "A sock hop will be held in the main gym next Wednesday from 9 p.m. to midnight if students reach the "Grand Can Slam" canned foods drive goal of 51,049 cans." Good times.
So no, I didn't throw the newspapers out. But not because I have any sense of duty or responsibility or wish to maintain closet space in my home as a repository for high school days gone by. I just forgot I had them.
As a result, their discovery came as quite a surprise -- "Oh, shit, I can't believe it!" There they were, crumbling and yellow, as I was going through the last of the many storage boxes, packed up when a pipe burst in my basement two years ago. At that time, the contents of every room had been boxed up by trained professionals [okay, day workers with prison records], who emptied the house [or filled their pockets] and put everything into a storage pod on the driveway. This event was followed immediately by the mold men, who came in and charged thousands of dollars for questionable "reclamation" work, which seemed to consist of a quart of Kilz paint and a couple of cans of fungicide spray.
Since our latest reunion -- the big 5-0 -- is coming up so fast that the facelift I had planned will have to be put on hold, it occurred to me that I might be able to do something with those newspapers, finally. Something to throw up on a screen during the band's fifteen minute pee-break at our Saturday night "business casual" reunion gala.
Keeping things as simple as possible, I'm going to scan four years of student newspapers for anything about anyone in our class and create a slide show that can play during intermission. [For instance, I found a photo of me from junior year on the front page of the paper. I'm described as "dateless for the dance." And I remained dateless. At that point, I was still 0 for high school.]
Quantity is more important than quality for this reunion slideshow effort. First there's the alcohol factor. Drunken olde classmates will help raise its entertainment quotient. Second, when it comes to pictures, people are like cats and laser lights. "Is that me? Is that me? Oh look, that's me! ME ME ME ME ME." I see it as a no-lose.
To accompany this visual spectacle, a few of us are planning to sing some songs from the sixties, with parody lyrics we've written about fellow members of our class. Only five weeks to get it done. It has to be something we can pull off with no rehearsal, since that won't happen. I figure between a former opera singer, a National Geo photographer, a rear admiral, perhaps the former poet laureate of Maryland and me, we can fake it, if nothing else.

There's No Bidness Like Show Bidness

2011-09-10T16:38:00.003-05:00

Today the group of ladies who sing barbershop harmony and I performed a SING OUT at the Evanston Farmer's Market. This is the SING OUTside portion of our performance schedule, which, thankfully, occurs when Chicago's egregious winter weather goes on hiatus for a few weeks. There was a brief concern about rain because we wear t-shirts on these occasions. And the prospect of mature women singing Get Me To The Church On Time with wet and wild chests raised more than a little concern.
Basically, we sing for about an hour in a couple of different locations around the marketplace, usually between the homegrown tomatoes and the canned peaches, but not too close to anybody smoking hot dogs or ears of corn. In fact, our show today in Evanston, IL, just down the street from one of Northwestern University's sorority quads, was the second of three stops on this year's worldwide tour of suburban parking lots converted into fresh air groceries on Saturdays. Our final moment in the sun will be at the Glenview Farmer's Market toward the end of the month. If you're around, just keep driving by.
Since next year is the 60th anniversary of the founding of our group, a photographer came to our rehearsal last Thursday to take pictures, as we prepared for today's performance and learned a couple of new songs as well. Supposedly there will be an article to go with the pictures in a week or so. Everyone was advised in advance to look presentable for the newspaper photos, a warning I took to heart by not wearing the clothes I slept in. Meanwhile, the nude calendar is on hold.
Another photographer showed up for our performance this Saturday morning, shooting stills of our little group decked out in our Betty Boop make up, voluminous palazzo pants, red, white, and blue earrings, red-sequined black sun visors, and those t-shirts I mentioned. Our group was small today because half of us couldn't be there, so we stood close together hoping that proximity would make us sound like a larger group. But mostly help us stay on key.
It wasn't going to be easy. We started out singing "Consider Yourself," as our warm up, always a risky gambit. Using an opener to work out the kinks is like playing football to get into shape. It doesn't always go well. Usually we'll go up the scale singing the lyric "Open Pit Barbecue Sauce" for each note of the octave. It sounds funny to the people listening and we can do an entire warmup in public without too much effort. Not today. We jumped right in. Afterward, there was a smattering of applause from friends, family, and a group of moms with their kids. Plus a few people passing by carrying armloads of fruits and vegetables. There was mumbling in the group about staying on pitch. Personally, I thought it was enough of a miracle that we managed to end on the same chord, considering.
After singing "Tomorrow" it was noted that someone [all fingers pointed at me] sang the wrong lyrics at the beginning. And loudly. Apparently I substituted "So you gotta hang on till tomorrow" for "Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow. . ." Mea Culpa. At least I was on key. Some people to my right weren't in the neighborhood.
Taking a Chance on Love started out harmlessly enough, but we had some stragglers toward the end there. And one notable missed chord which didn't bother some lady in the audience who came running up afterward and gushed about how wonderful we were.
Even though 9/11 is tomorrow, no one had the courage to attempt America the Beautiful without the full group. Yes it rocks when we've got everybody around. But, the lyrics to the second verse are so annoying, there was a real risk that we could forget them and [horrors] have to start over. Hey, we're volunteers. Nobody's getting paid for this. See if you could remember this bizarre collection of meaningless words, all of which should have been excised from this perfectly good patriotic song a long time ago:

O beautiful for pilgrim feet

Whose stern impassioned stress

A thoroughfare of freedom beat

Across the wilderness!

America! America! God mend thine every flaw,

Confirm thy soul in self-control, Thy liberty in law!

I rest my case.

So while we had the perfect opportunity to do a 9-11 tribute, we just flat chickened out. In my defense, I had actually reviewed the lyrics in the car on the way over, so I was prepared [for once]. But nobody else wanted to attempt it.

All of the show tunes we sang with choreography went over well. People love to watch ladies of an uncertain age women like we're standing in front of the bathroom mirror, alone. In the interest of full disclosure, choreography usually means moving our hands a lot, so I have, on occasion, referred to those songs as "handjobs." I know, there's no excuse.

At one point we were going to sing "In the Good Old Summertime", but the bass part is spent going "BUM BUM BUM BUM BUM BUM BUM. . ." until the last couple of measures, so I was glad we skipped it. Summer's almost over anyway.

We sang Sha-boom, which is always a crowd favorite, except, for some reason, we forgot to modulate in the middle, which left our director rolling her eyes. However, our yaddadadadadas and electric slide routine went over well.

Moonglow sounded good. I thought it might be a little too quiet for an outdoor event, but it worked for some reason. At least from where I was standing. I forget what else we sang. But I do know that we sang everything twice. And we finished with a song we always sing at the end of our reheasals called Good Night. Since it was daytime, we changed the lyrics to Good Bye, so everybody would know the show was over.

My ears hurt from wearing clip-on earrings. My feet are tired from standing for so long. My hair looks weird, but that's nothing new. My stomach is growling because I spent the whole morning at a farmer's market and didn't buy anything. And I look like the world's oldest hooker with all this make up on.

Good times.

A Moving Story

2011-09-09T23:32:00.004-05:00

I've decided my posts are too long. Perhaps that's why I've neglected my blog lately. Long just takes way too long. And the days are getting shorter. That, and I've been spending most of the last week emptying out two packed storage lockers.
When it finally became obvious that the value of the objects within said lockers was far less than the cost of keeping them there for another decade, I contacted two sets of people who make a living emptying storage spaces and driving them someplace else. The first set of people are called MOVERS. The second set are called HAULERS. Their names have not so much to do with what they're moving as much as where they are going.
Movers tend to go to homes. Haulers tend to go to the dump. Like the closet hoarder I tend to be, I decided to hire movers, so I could spend even more quality time with stuff I hadn't used in ten years by now storing it in my garage and basement.
Until I discovered that for two guys and a van it would cost me $120 an hour. So, except for one load -- thank you Danny -- I moved it all myself. Over the long weekend I loaded and unloaded my Explorer, trekking back and forth ten times, dismantling shelves, lifting boxes, toting furniture, and generally testing the warrantee on my two new hips. Not to mention the last vestiges of my back.
Quelle surprise! I didn't have to break out the Advil once. Considering that it used to take four capsules just to get me to the edge of the bed and putting on socks or shoes with laces was out of the question, this was a miracle. But the whole time I was doing my Jack LaLanne thing, I kept wondering whether I was tempting fate. I mean, did Noah have similar concerns when the boat was loaded with all those animals and he had to find a way to get the last two rhinos on board? Was he concerned that his trusty vessel would capsize? I know. Bad visual. Worse metaphor. But you get my drift. Especially if you have creaky knees, hips, or shoulders. Or replaced any of them.
I also didn't want to find myself writhing on YouTube or America's Funniest Videos flat on my back under a giant box that I had tried lifting into my SUV only to have the thing slip out of my hands and, well, you've seen all before so there's no sense trying to explain. [Can you tell I've been reading a lot of Frank McCourt lately?]
Meanwhile, I have created two staging areas: the porch and the driveway. And two designated storage areas: the garage and the basement. I've reassembled three sets of shelves to accommodate those things which will remain. I've already donated a bunch of clothing, given my daughter's dollhouse to my neighbor's three-year-old, and filled two huge garbage cans with things I can't believe I kept for so long. I'm still undecided about the artificial Christmas tree that has its own lights and the five fake poinsettia plants. But, I'm willing to entertain ideas for creative ways to put them to good use.

McMonster

2011-08-02T13:03:00.000-05:00

So you tell me. Take a look at this aerial photograph of the huge house that was built on the property behind me. It's the one in the middle/top. Does it look like its footprint is only 45% of the property as it claims to be? Or more than the limit of 50%?
According to the village the footprint includes everything -- the house, the garage, patio, porches, and all the ground covered by cement. There are other definitions of "footprint" which don't include driveways, porches or patios. But, based on my conversation with the powers that be in my town, the "footprint" is all inclusive. Looks like a size 22 hiking boot trying to squeeze into a size six dance shoe. The large houses recently built to the right and left are also part of the problem. But the one in middle is causing most of the issues.

Be All You Can Be

2011-07-27T14:07:00.003-05:00

After hitting the speed bump at sixty, being seen out and about without all my makeup on and my hair perfectly coiffed [is that a great word, or what?] no longer seemed to matter so much. Here in my neighborhood at least. The days of knowing I'll run into some guy I've been dying to date [and vice versa] are so over. The last time I had a guy in my house it was for a wellness check. I kid. He was checking for a gas leak.
I simply save the war paint and styling for important things, like lunchtime meetings in fancy offices in the city, where you don't want to be mistaken by the guards for a bag lady who stole somebody's computer.
Of course, in the end, it ain't the guys you have to impress, it's the women. They're tough as Nancy Grace after a verdict. Some bitch recently asked why I hadn't had a facelift yet. Not that I looked bad, but think of the improvement. [Note to self: don't start conversations in Jiffy Lube.] At a party another babe had to show me where Botox could do me some good, tracing the myriad "character lines" that form the Mariana Trench in my forehead.
It occurred to me that I may have taken this no makeup, bad hair, casual dress thing a little too far, when I stopped to chat this AM with a neighbor as I waited for a cab to the train for a meeting downtown. To set the scene, I was wearing clothes that didn't have a Carhartt label and my shoes had no treads. Meanwhile, she kept staring at me as we discussed her trip to pick blueberries in Michigan. More accurately, I was telling her about MY trips to pick blueberries in Michigan. Her kids began staring too, when they came outside to join us. They stood a couple of feet below me, looking up, eyes wide, mouths open, the way kids do when you're a complete stranger they've never met before. Or just someone they can't place. You could be the woman next door, but something's very different.
When there was a lull during my monologue, their mom said, "Oh, you've got makeup on. You look nice."
There it was, the unfinished sentence. "You look nice..." Did she mean I didn't look nice those other times? Who am I kidding, of course she did, but not so much in a bad way. Just an acknowledgement of how we all use our yards and driveways as extensions of the inside of our homes, like Tony Soprano wearing that raggedy robe outdoors to get the paper. Or clipping your toenails on the front steps.
But mostly, it's the uncombed hair and lack of makeup thing that I have taken to heart. Along with wearing outfits I swipe from the Goodwill bag when everything else is dirty. [However, no matter what pair of paint-stained shorts or faded softball tee I'm sporting, I always wear a bra. I'm 67. Enough said.]
Where was I before getting sidetracked with a visual of the pendulums swinging? Oh yes, Wearing make up. Combing hair. Or not.
After surprising my neighbor with my great facepaint job while impersonating a woman yesterday, I woke up today and decided that from now on, do the hair and makeup. No matter what. No matter where. Hair and makeup and maybe use the Tide stick and get rid of that stain on the front of my blouse. Or, here's a thought, how about a clean blouse? I can do this.

Payback Is Coming

2011-07-26T16:51:00.002-05:00

The village where I live has a unique way of handling issues like flooding and power outages. When they make mistakes, we get to pay for them.

Thirty years ago when I moved here, I noticed, along with everyone else in the neighborhood, that our street flooded whenever there was an inch of rain. After the 100-year flood of 1982, followed by another 100-year flood in 1987 [obviously Mother Nature sucks at math], the village had an epiphany. What you need are bigger storm sewers, they said. Why thank you, we said. But there was a catch. Along with the fancy new pipes, they said, you'll also want the matching new curbs to accommodate the metal grates you'll need to drain the water into the storm sewers and take it away. And it just so happens we're having a sale. In the end, the village paid for the sewers. And the neighborhood forked out a thousand dollars per household for the metal grates and the fancy new curbs that will surely enhance the value of all our homes blah blah blah.

Fifteen years later, the street still floods after an inch of rain. In fact, over the weekend when we had five inches fall in just two hours, the street flooded up and over the parkway, past the sidewalk, through the yard, and stopped just six feet from my house.

But the good news is that once the rain has stopped, the flood water drains much faster. So the new pipes suck when it comes to preventing the flooding, but they're great for drainage. The mistake they made? The grates. They aren't big enough to handle the load when there's a downpour. The flood water turns into a 500 pound gorilla trying to squeeze into an eight pound bag. Naturally the village won't pony up the money to make the grates bigger. Or admit they made a mistake.

The next mistake the village made was during the early years of the tear-down frenzy. Two new houses went up on our block and the grade elevation for each house was notably higher than the rest of surrounding homes. Big mistake. After the first one-inch rain, the other eight backyards were way under water. And the water sat there for weeks and weeks. My backyard had its own fish pond for more than a month. Another neighbor lost her entire lawn.

To voice their concern, the neighborhood had a meeting with the storm commission, which declared that this event was just a fluke and it was probably caused by excess vegetation, which was our fault. I am not kidding.

However! For the low, low price of $1500 per household, they could have the problem fixed. No, we said. You allowed the builders to raise the grade. This time we're not paying for your mistake. But, they claimed, we can't fix our mistakes unless you pay for them. Nope. Yep. Nope. Yep. Until the woman whose lawn had been destroyed showed up for a meeting carrying her brand new baby and called them names that cannot be printed in a family friendly blog -- for this entry at least. [See George Carlin.] Somehow the village found a way to save face and hooked up a framitz to the squiggly thing and ta-da, the water was gone!!

But municipalities are not like elephants. They do not have long memories. In fact, it could be argued they don't have memories at all. Recently, the village totally forgot about the mess they caused by raising the grade a decade ago and allowed three more new houses on the other side of the block to do virtually the same thing. Only worse. These houses were not only on higher ground, which is like grade elevation on steroids, but these McMansions with their three-car garages, industrial-sized driveways, and immense patios have covered over 50% of the properties with concrete. A perfect combination for runoff of biblical proportions.

Since construction finished on these homes, our backyards have never seen so much water. Not only is there runoff, but the pipes from their sump pumps are adding to the deluge. The problem is that there's only one place for the water to go after our yards get filled up. Into the house. Twice, water has poured through the window wells into the basements. Twice, it has overwhelmed the sump pumps whose principle job is to keep the ground water under control. Twice, it has flooded out the furnaces and knocked out the hot water heaters.

Very big mistake. But naturally, the village wants us to pay to fix the problem -- by hiring people to build berms and swales, re-routing our gutters and sumps, putting in fancy drains from the backyard to the front, even installing new window wells, and on and on and on. The people whose houses have caused the problem don't have to do anything. And, to this point, the people at the village who keep making these mistakes think they don't have anything to worry about either.

But Mrs. Linklater thinks that with a little effort, we may soon have another episode of Jobs in Jeopardy.

Is this a great country or what?

I WANT MY FREE RIDE!

2011-07-22T13:53:00.004-05:00

When disgraced Governor Blagojevich was running the state, he declared that forever and ever [during his administration at least] SENIORS WILL RIDE ON MASS TRANSPORTATION FOR FREE. He might have added, "unless I'm kicked out of office and there's a special election and the next governor caves in to all the people who keep complaining that millions of dollars in revenue have been squandered in the name of old people." But until September 1st, SENIORS RIDE FREE.
Of course, FREE is relative. With government mandates, you get bureaucracy. And bureaucracy is always set up so you have to PAY when an elected official declares that something is FREE.
That means, instead of just using your driver's license to get on a bus or a train FOR FREE, which is easy, you have to go through a PROCESS, which is almost always about hard cash.
This is Illinois. There were jobs to be created out of Blago's magnanimous gesture to the bifocal crowd. The process meant that anyone 65 or older had to go online [more work for a web team] or to a designated location [more offices to open and people to staff the windows] to fill out the paper work [more paper to purchase and printers to buy], bring a driver's license [and if you don't have a driver's license you have to get a state ID, which could mean hiring even more people if there's a run on state IDs] and provide a passport sized photo [somebody's going to make money off that]. Then, after all that, you had to wait five weeks to get your RIDE FREE card in the mail. Five farking weeks.
Funny how you can get a driver's license or a state ID with your picture on it the very SAME DAY, but it takes FIVE WEEKS to get a FREE RIDE card, a process rendered completely unnecessary if you could just use your driver's license. Or go to a driver's license facility and use their set up to create the FREE RIDE cards.
Which brings me to my first predicament. I don't usually use public transportation, but my daughter just moved close to a commuter train station, so I realized that being a SENIOR, I could get to her place and back on the train FOR FREE, and not spend a dime to gas up my car. As long as I got my FREE RIDE card.
Which brings me to my next predicament. The ALL SENIORS RIDE FREE is ENDING on September 1 -- just five weeks from now. On September 1st, unless your income is low enough, SENIORS can only get a 50% discount on the fare.
Meanwhile there are still five weeks left when ALL seniors can supposedly ride for FREE. All except me. Because you need a FREE RIDE card to ride free. But if you don't already have a FREE RIDE card, you can't get one any more. Catch-22. So there's five weeks of free rides that I am eligible for, but I can't use. Because I don't HAVE a FREE RIDE card. All because I can't GET a FREE RIDE card.
Instead of letting all seniors -- me me me me me -- ride free for the last five weeks of the program by simply showing their MEDICARE cards or their driver's licenses, we now have to pay.
A full fare train ticket from my town to my daughter's stop is $8.00 round trip. The senior fare will be $4.00 on September 1st. For the next 37 days that ride is free for anyone over 65. Except ME.
And anyone else who can't get their FREE RIDE card.
Did I mention I can't get my FREE RIDE card?

Without the Cookies, Girl Scouts Have No Reason to Exist

2011-07-19T17:14:00.012-05:00

I was never a Girl Scout. I never liked being around groups of girls. Too girly. The real reason I eschewed this bastion of Goody Two Shoes Americana was because I had been faced with a choice: be a Girl Scout or join a bowling team. Easy. For me, bowling was a no brainer. They kept score, people won trophies, and I didn't have to wear a green dress. I suppose you could make a bunch of jokes about balls, too, but don't.
On reflection, I actually enjoyed being in Brownies, but when I got to sixth grade in a new town at a new school, Girl Scouts seemed lame. However, having my own female children brought me back into the fold. My younger daughter caught the bug. When I realized I would have first crack at the stash of cookies, I embraced her choice as any supportive parent would.

Recently, I found the green sash she used to wear over her uniform, the one that displayed the wall-to-wall merit badges she'd earned. I returned it to her when she was in town for the holidays last year. It seemed to me she was rather surprised and quite pleased to see it again, judging by the look on her face. Either that or she was thinking, "You saved THIS, Mom? It's been 25 years. Are you a hoarder?"

   However, finding this last remnant of her days as a cookie shill also brought back memories of my experiences as a volunteer mom on a couple of field trips with The Scout Leader from Hell.
   My naive impression of scout leaders has always been a stereotype. The men are talented, thoughtful fathers with infinite patience. They're the dads who can pitch tents, build fires, make pancakes from wood shavings, and know every campfire song ever written. Or they're pedophiles. Not too much in between.
   The women are moms who could make Martha Stewart look like she's not trying hard enough. These are the babes who can rewire the house and adjust the carburetor on the lawn mower while simultaneously making lasagne and red velvet cake with homemade frosting from scratch, wearing an apron they whipped up just for the occasion. I'm sure the GSA [Girl Scouts of America] counts on these kinds of women to step up and run their be-all-you-can-be operations. But after what I went through with the scout leader who ran my daughter's troop, I am not so sure how how well their quality control checks are working.
   The first field trip with my daughter's Girl Scout troop was for an overnight in Wisconsin that required sleeping bags. The girls bunked in two large tents. The Scout Leader and the volunteer moms were housed together in another big tent. Fortunately nobody had to sleep on the ground. The tents were more like a large canvas room set up on a raised platform, with one side open to the elements during the day.
   Having been camping many times, I already knew that when you're outside, even in the summer, nights can be cold. Expecting the temperature to go down to forty degrees, I had brought a down sleeping bag that was good to twenty below zero. My daughter had one, too. The Scout Leader brought something from Disney Outfitters, based on the cartoon characters on the outside.
   Needless to say, by morning, our Mickey Mouse leader was suffering from hypothermia. She was shaking uncontrollably from the cold, so I got up, got dressed, and told the other mothers to wrap her in my industrial strength sleeping bag to warm her up.
   While the moms were tending to the patient, the girls were already up and wandering around, wondering who was going to feed them. Since our inexperienced leader was clearly indisposed for an indeterminate amount of time, I organized the girls to start a fire, put them to work mixing up the batter for the pancakes, got out a pan for the bacon, supervised the start of some scrambled eggs, and did what is known as taking charge of the situation. Without too much fanfare and some lessons in cooking outdoors, the girls were eating breakfast by the time the sun was over the trees and the temperature was climbing.
   After about forty-five minutes, the hypothermia that derailed The Scout Leader had subsided, thanks to my very helpful sleeping bag. It didn't cost $250 in 1970 for nothing. Now she was up, dressed, and proceeded to walk over to the cooking area where I expected her to thank me profusely for making it possible for her to live another day.
   Instead she looked around and asked rather pointedly, "Who said you could make breakfast? I didn't say it was time to start making the pancakes."
   What? No "thank you" for possibly saving your life? No 'thank you" for teaching camp cooking and feeding a group of very hungry Girl Scouts while you were rendered incompetent? Ah, clearly she was not only inexperienced as a Scout Leader, but she was an unmitigated control freak who couldn't or wouldn't delegate tasks to other people. The girls and I just stared at her.
   My next experience with this woman was a trip to visit Abraham Lincoln's home in Salem, Illinois. It's about a five-hour bus ride down to the Salem area. We arrived too late at night to swim in the hotel's pool, even though a dip in the chlorine had been promised to the girls. Since it was already 10:00 PM and we had to be up by 6:00 AM to start sightseeing, the logical thing would be to get the girls settled down in their rooms.
   At this point, for some reason, The Scout Leader simply disappeared. According to one of the other moms, she suddenly left to go visit some friends in the area. Huh? Did she leave any instructions? No. Did she say ANYTHING at all? No. But she'll be back. Aha. The Scout Leader is obviously insane, spelled a-s-s-h-a-t. The girls were running all over, buying candy and soda, playing with pinball machines in the lobby, laughing and giggling, and getting bleary-eyed. At 11:00 PM with The Scout Leader nowhere in sight, I filled the vacuum and took charge. I got the girls up to their rooms and into their p.j.s, so they could get settled down and be rested for the 6:00 AM wake up call.
   At 11:30 PM, The Scout Leader returned with no apologies -- heard what I had done, got the management to open the pool, came upstairs, looked at me with daggers, and told the girls they could get up, put on their bathing suits, and go swimming. She would show me who was in charge.
   Finally at 1:30 AM, they fell into bed. Who knows when they went to sleep. And they were zombies the next day.
   But the piece de resistance was the trip to the farm in the country. I stayed home. Not because I wanted to. But because I was not allowed to go on this trip. The Scout Leader decided to mandate a two trip limit for the volunteer moms. Quelle surprise. When the girls returned home from their weekend communing with the cows, the entire troop was suffering from food poisoning. Apparently the well water was contaminated with campylobacter, a bug that thrives in cow dung. Good times! And the farm in question had not been approved by the GSA for field trips because of problems in the past. But The Scout Leader took them anyway.
   How bad was the food poisoning? The NIH called me from Maryland because there were reports that other family members were getting sick, which was the first time campylobacter had spread from human to human, not just animal to human. In fact, after chatting with the investigators tracking down the source of the contamination, it seemed like the scouts were being treated like part of a gigantic lab experiment.
   My daughter didn't have the stomach cramping and diarrhea most of the others did. She had a fever so high that she began to talk to me in gibberish and I had to rush her to the hospital to get her temperature down. Naturally, The Scout Leader never suffered any consequences for her latest example of poor decision making.
   The only highlight of an otherwise dismal year in this wacky world of scouting was that I was given permission to supervise the acting/drama badge. But only because there were no other volunteers. However, I was allowed to have just five girls, despite the fact that at least ten girls wanted to participate. Nevermind, that I had basically assumed control of the entire troop when The Scout Leader was abdicating her responsibilities. She actually told me that I wouldn't be able to handle more than a group of five.
   Along with my daughter, the Scout Leader's daughter was one of the chosen few. I'm sure she was expected to rat me out whenever possible. I got them free tickets to a show, starring a friend of mine. We made puppets, acted out a radio script, did some improv, and auditioned for a commercial. For the makeup portion of the badge, the girls sprayed my hair gray, gave me wrinkles, created a pair of hornrimmed glasses, and at the age of forty, turned me into a creaky old lady. Somewhere there are pictures.
   Maybe I should have had them dress me up as a drama queen. But there's already one too many in this story.
Which brings me back to my original premise, however roundabout it may seem. Given the questionable state of local leadership -- from food poisoning to sleep deprivation -- if it weren't for their cookies, in fact, if it weren't for Thin Mints and Samoas specifically, would there be a reason for Girl Scouts to exist?

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: The Opinions Expressed By This Blogger May Be Hazardous To A Couple of Friendships

2011-07-12T19:24:00.013-05:00

I have a couple of longtime friends who feel that our relationship allows them to tell me when someone in my family doesn't conform to their ideals of perfect behavior. [I am not inclined to this type of nitpicking, as shocking as that may seem.]
   "You know," they start out, "Your [insert brother, sister, daughter, son, father, mother, aunt, uncle, adopted cousin] is very difficult," they inform me. This momentous piece of information is proffered, using the carefully modulated tones of a conspirator who fears that he/she might be overheard by the subject in question. The kind of difficulty they refer to isn't illegal, unethical, or immoral. It's the type of difficulty one experiences when dealing with someone who is edgy and occasionally rude. [Not that Mrs. L would have the slightest clue what that entails.]
   What's more interesting is that these same allegedly concerned and caring friends don't have any actual examples of this difficulty, only what others have told them. And, in one instance, a less than stellar moment they witnessed. Regardless, neither one of them has been on the receiving end of this so called "difficult" behavior. Which, like all imperfect behavior, tends to overshadow the preponderance of otherwise impeccable decorum.
   So why tell me something I already know? They're talking about a relative of mine. Someone I care about. Someone I have spent holidays and vacations with. And been around most of my life. Don't they think I'm already aware that the subject in question can be "difficult" from time to time? I like to think it's part of their charm.
   Which brings me to my half of the equation.
   Have you two looked around at your own families lately?
   As I recall, one of you has family members who had difficulty graduating from high school before they were 19. Or was it 20? And how quickly we forget that the cops had to be called out to the house this year because somebody became extremely difficult, or more accurately, dangerously violent, when he drank more than he should.
   How grateful you must be that times have changed so we don't have to fudge the number of months between the babies our relatives make and the wedding dates they celebrate. I remember when 8-pound premies could be difficult to explain.
   Of course, when it comes to years of difficult and shockingly rude behavior, topped with drug abuse and an underage girl's cherry on top, this decade's gold medal belongs to the black sheep of somebody else's family, not mine.
   Like I said, my difficult relative in question has not done anything illegal, unethical, or immoral. Having a personality that can feel like coarse sandpaper is not a crime. Nor has it prevented a successful career, rewarded more than once for good performance.
   Recently, I also discovered that one of my two friends has had a history of crushing the spirits of young teens, brutalizing their self esteem with cruel personal attacks. Even doing this to her nieces and nephews. Usually this happens by taking the unsuspecting youth aside for a personal chat when no one else is around. I can only assume it's a control freak thing. Apparently, it turns out my family has also been victimized by her. Years ago, I just found out, she noticed that one of my spawn and one of hers were becoming more than just friends. So she took it upon herself to make sure that my child knew, in no uncertain terms, that she was not good enough for her child.
   Yes, I know what you're thinking. How come we're still friends? I didn't find out about this event until recently. Over twenty years have passed. Perhaps the right moment to deal with it has also passed. But it occurred to me that I have a blog which might be a good place to start the process. If she reads this and wants to talk, the rest can happen offline.

Schadenfreude Tastes Better Fresh

2011-07-01T13:16:00.016-05:00

Once in a while you meet someone who leaves you wondering.
I wonder -- do they know how much baggage they’re dragging? I wonder -- did they pack up all that crap by themselves or did they have help from Mom and Dad?

Tonight, with my car on the fritz, I got a ride to rehearsal with a new member of our barbershop chorus who lives in my town. Even though I’ve seen her at our practices for the last couple of months, I’ve never spent any quality time with her, because we sing different parts.

Since, unlike me, she isn't prone to making class clown remarks between songs, I had no clue whether she was funny or smart or even the least bit interesting. But I found out what she was pretty quick.

About a minute after she picked me up, my mobile started ringing. After fishing around in the bottom of my purse trying to find some reading glasses, I just asked if she would mind reading the name on the caller ID. I wanted to screen the call. Okay, I wanted her to screen the call for me.

Holy crap! You would have thought I asked her to cut off her left nipple and wear it as a nose warmer. Not only did she adamantly refuse to look at the caller ID, but, she proceeded to lecture me about using a cell phone while driving, with a side order on the evils of texting.

So I took that as a NO. Just to be sure I thoroughly understood her position, she reiterated her take no prisoners stand. “Sorry, but I can’t help you out. I’m driving.”

Naturally, I was a little taken aback by her vehement refusal to help. In fact, I’ll even suggest that she had overreacted just a tad.

Since we were STOPPED AT A STOPLIGHT.

That was the first piece of baggage -- a little Samsonite overnight carry-on.

Which begged the question -- what life experience had turned her into such an obnoxious, anal-retentive bossy pants?

Before I had time to conjure up a theory, she had already volunteered that her parents were divorced fifteen years ago and her dad was a jerk. The good news? He was dead. Stopping briefly to take a breath, she told me her earliest memory as a child was her first birthday. She remembered that she was worried the burning horsey candles on the cake would start a fire as her parents were screaming at each other in the background.

Okay then.

I wonder how much more luggage she’s got on board? Our singing practice passed uneventfully. She’s a lead and I’m a bass, so we don’t sit anywhere near one another. But on the ride back, the baggage began to pile up again.

This time she was packing a couple of those Hammacher Schlemmer microfiber bags with all the zippers and pockets. We had gone only a couple of blocks when they arrived.

A storm cell had been making its way along the lake. As we left rehearsal, the skies began to unleash wave after wave of pounding rain, but luckily, not until we were safely inside her car.

I wasn’t particularly concerned, since most cars come equipped with windshield wipers to insure visibility. So I was unfurling a bunch of snappy patter about how the practice went, when she suddenly raised her voice and told me to stop talking.

Huh?

"Please don't talk."

Apparently she can’t walk and chew gum. Holding a conversation while driving in the rain is too difficult for her. The effort requires too much concentration, so while she tried to soften her request with a “Don’t take this the wrong way”, clearly my job was to keep quiet until further notice.

That little episode filled up most of a North Face dufflebag, which I just threw into the back with the rest of the luggage.

The rain was gone almost as soon as it started. So I ventured to ask if it was safe to talk again. I smiled when I said it, but there was enough sarcasm to launch her on a defense of driving safety, which I tuned out and cannot share because I just don’t give a shit.

I was still trying to think of some small talk when she volunteered a story about how her pet hamster [she's allergic to everything else] escaped from its cage on the same day her husband’s grandmother died. Which segued into how he left his suit for the funeral in their closet at home, so she had to find her 6’3” hubba bubba something to wear down in Buttf**k, Indiana. SHE had to handle it, because HE was too stupid to find a pair of slacks, a sweater, and a tie that matched by himself.

My only thought was, “You’re married?”

Even though she grew up in my town, I had the nerve to suggest the fastest way to get to my house. She ignored my suggestion and took a route I avoid at any cost. Why? Because there is a railroad crossing that attracts slow freight trains like wasps on watermelon. I decided not to say anything in case this would be the one time I was wrong.

Oh look, here comes a freight train. That was fifteen minutes of painful silence I never want to spend again.

How bad was this going to get I wondered, shoving a hatbox and a makeup case into the trunk.

Turning left onto my quiet, traffic-free street, we were only four homes from the safety of my house. In anticipation of my impending escape, I did something I rarely do – removed my seatbelt in preparation for getting out of the car in thirty feet.

“The car is still moving, you shouldn’t take your seatbelt off!” she shrieked. At 10 MPH, was she planning to drive onto the parkway and slam into a tree?

I didn’t say anything because I was thinking, “The bitch is insane.”

At this point in my tale, I must stop to say that what follows next is the best example of schadenfreude I have ever experienced. [Schadenfreude, for the uninitiated, is the uniquely German word for the pleasure one gets from the misfortunes of others, one of my many human failings. However, here I choose to embrace it without apology.]

Meanwhile, let me set the scene for the final act of this car ride from Hell. And the matching bags that came with it.

My neighbor, Viktor, a certified a**hole who lives across the street, insists on parking his hemi-Dodge pick up directly across from my driveway. Basically I’m at risk of playing bumper cars every time I back out. He has parked this way for the last three years, even though he has a driveway big enough to accommodate six cars. Meanwhile, he is well aware -- because my neighbors have pointed this out to him -- that it would be more thoughtful to park his car somewhere else.

But there it was, the big black Dodge Testosterona-mobile, taking up half the street and positioned perfectly within the designated target range, directly across from my driveway.

Just before pulling up in front of my house, I told my ride that she didn’t have to turn into the driveway. She could just drop me at the curb, since the street she lived on was only a block ahead. But no, she turned into my driveway so she could back out and go the exact opposite direction. I have no idea why she wanted to do that, except that I had suggested doing something else.

I am sure you know what happened next. So let me confirm it.

First I jumped out of her car, said "Thanks for the ride," and ran into my house.

Did I know what was going to happen next? I’m not sure. Did it cross my mind? Yes. But ever so briefly, since my subsequent thought was, "No, that couldn't possibly happen."

I wasn’t inside the house more than five seconds when there was a thump/crunch outside and the loudest car alarm I have ever heard began screaming into the night.

Instead of turning on the lights and running outside like a caring, concerned person, I peeked out through the shutters from the privacy of my darkened kitchen and prayed she wouldn't ring my doorbell. Yep, she’d slammed into the truck backing out. And there was Viktor racing out of his house.

Honestly, this moment couldn’t have happened to two more deserving people.

Just a personal observation, but I think if the alarm hadn’t been set off, she would have tried to make an escape, since her car was stopped way down the block.

They both surveyed the damage [it didn't look like much from my vantage point], went into Viktor’s house to exchange information, and she was on her way within five minutes. Dragging a 65-piece set of monogrammed Louis Vuitton luggage behind her.

One of Karma's finest hours.

Top 20 Most Difficult Interviews

2011-06-29T16:48:00.003-05:00

Despite the fact that none of the twenty companies mentioned in THIS ARTICLE is looking for a 67-year-old woman with new hips, I decided to accept the challenge and answer each one of the sample interview questions with the careful and thoughtful response it deserves.

1. McKinsey & Co. [Consulting]
HQ: New York, N.Y.
Sample Interview Question: Mom and pop music shop wants to grow with stiff competition. How should they go about it? Calculate customer lifetime value.

Really? Is this question leftover from a 1973 interview? Unless Mom and Pop want to handle the "stiff" competition by opening an adult video store, they are pretty much out of business by now. Earth to McKinsey, it's 2011. Do you have computer? One word: iTunes. You might want to alert the music industry. Lifetime value of a Mom and Pop music shop to its customers at this point: Less than zero.

2. Jane Street Capital [Investment Banking]
HQ: New York, N.Y.
Sample Interview Question: You have 2 decks of cards (each deck contains both red and black cards). One deck has twice the number of cards in the other deck with the same color ration (so one deck has 52 cards and the other has 104, both half red and half black). I offer you to play a game. First you get to chose which deck of cards you want to play with. Second, you draw 2 cards at random from your deck of choice. If both are red, then I will give you a ferarri. Which deck of cards would you chose?"

Dear Jane: It's clear you're not working with a full deck. First, the "f" in Ferrari is capitalized. Secondly, while you are correct in assuming there are three r's in Ferrari, you have managed to put them in the wrong order. Fourth, this question goes a long way to explaining what's f**king wrong with Wall Street's priorities.

3. Cree [Display Components]

HQ: Durham, N.C.
Sample Interview Question: How many barbers do you need in a city of 1 million people?

None. Unlike food and water, no one actually needs a haircut.

4. Bain & Co. [Consulting]

HQ: Boston, Mass.
Sample Interview Question: Help me estimate how many car dealerships there are in the United States?

   Seriously. I could do a brand by brand breakout based on number of cars sold, profits per car, margin of profit, operating costs, shiny suits, how dealers lie to customers, and figure this out. But I'm busy, so could you please just fire up your computer and Google the estimate instead of wasting my time? It's right there. Or are you people still using No. 2 pencils and IBM Selectrics?

5. Boston Consulting [Consulting, duh]
HQ: Boston, Mass.
Sample Interview Question: How many golf balls can fit in a 747?
   Who the fu*k cares?

6. Palantir Technologies [Some kind of gobbledegook software]
HQ: Palo Alto, Calif.
Sample Interview Question: How would you test an elevator to see if it is safe to ride?
   Very carefully. Ha, I crack myself up. Doesn't it already say the elevator's been tested right there on the lawfully required inspection sheet that's posted above the emergency phone? So why test it again? Is this for a Department of Redundancy job or something? I'd just get on the thing and push the button. If the elevator doesn't move, consider that not safe. Time to get off. On the other hand you could write to Mythbusters and have them drop it from 95 stories a few times. With you in it. [Just a thought.] That way there'd be an entertaining video, if nothing else.

7. Teach for America [Education]
HQ: New York, N.Y.
Sample Interview Question: You want to take the third graders on a field trip to the zoo, but there is no extra funding to do so. You must ask the principal to reconsider and allow your students to go on the field trip. Explain how you would persuade the principal.
   First I would need to know the parameters of this persuasion. Do I have to worry about losing my job? If not, locking up the principal and taking the petty cash becomes pretty persuasive. Option two: Liberate his porn stash. However, good taste and character require another solution. Ooops, fresh out. So, let's do some marketing instead. Have the class dress up as homeless kids and beg for money by the off ramps of major highways. That should do it. Oh, and alert the media.

8. A.T. Kearney [Consulting]
HQ: Chicago, Ill.
Sample Interview Question: Can you tell me how many airplanes fly out of O'Hare in a given day?
   All of them. In the past, a couple haven't landed so well. But that wasn't the question, was it?

9. Red Ventures [DIrect Marketing Services]
HQ: Indian Land, S.C.
Sample Interview Question: If you were an animal, what animal would you be?
   And the reason this question is relevant to anything but Charades is...?

10. BP [OIL and other egregious crimes]
HQ: London, United Kingdom
Sample Interview Question: If you had to change a tire, how would you do it?
   Easy. I would change into the thong bikini I keep in the trunk for just such emergencies.

11. ZS Associates [Consulting]
HQ: Evanston, Ill.
Sample Interview Question: It is your first day, you have no clue about the work and you have been asked to solve a tough problem. How will you go about it ?
   No problemo. I would simply find my boss and tell him he can take this job and shove it. Giving somebody a difficult problem to solve on their first day is bullsh*t. First days are for welcome lunches and checking out the hot employees. Giving somebody a tough problem without proper training the very day they walk in the door is a red flag announcing that abusing you is gonna get worse. Get out while you can.

12. Procter & Gamble [Personal Care Products]
HQ: Cincinnati, Ohio
Sample Interview Question: Tell me a time when you had to demonstrate your leadership skills?
   The day I kicked an OB resident out of the labor room after he started cranking my bed down and making me very uncomfortable. When I asked him why he was doing that, he said, "Because I can't examine you in that position." Whereupon I said, "Then get the fu*k out of here and get someone who can." He left. And sent someone else. Hey, you try bossing docs around when you're having a baby and see how you do.

13. Salesforce.com [Software and a bunch of other stuff]
HQ: San Francisco, Calif.
Sample Interview Question: How do you look for SQL injections?
   Okay, I give.

14. Altria [Tobacco products]
HQ: Richmond, Va.
Sample Interview Question: Describe a very hectic week and what you did to prioritize.
   Whoever came up with this question never had a child who wouldn't go to school without her orange socks, never had to miss the train to drop off a lunch that got left behind, never had to produce 26 cupcakes in half an hour, never had to ask a neighbor to forge your signature on a field trip permission slip, and never had to take a call from an emergency room doctor in the middle of a meeting. Hectic weeks have a way of prioritizing themselves. With or without kids.

15. Oliver Wyman [Consulting]
HQ: New York, N.Y.
Sample Interview Question: Estimate the percentage of the US which is covered by man-made structures.
   Man-made? I take it anything designed or built by women is not included in this little exercise. Maya Lin might take exception. Try human-engineered structures. I know, you hate it. I don't care. WARNING to WOMEN: Beware of companies that say "MANNED" instead of "STAFFED." They're only superficially PC.

16. Bridgewater Associates [Consulting]
HQ: Westport, Conn.
Sample Interview Question: How would you explain your job to an aunt or uncle who is not familiar with that industry?
   You mean like consulting, for example? Well, Auntie Em, every Monday I get on a plane and go to another city. Why? Because one of the benefits of my job is frequent flier mileage. I know! How great is that? While I'm there I live in a hotel. During the day I work at a company that pays my company to give them advice. Kind of like you do for me when I call and you tell me how to keep the cheese sauce from getting lumpy. Exactly the same. I help the company get the lumps out of their cheese sauce. And while we're at it, I also help them find new ways to use their cheese sauce. Like the time you suggested I pour it over broccoli and cauliflower together. Same deal. After I give them advice for four days, I fly back home and do my laundry so I can fly back again on Monday and pile up more frequent flier mileage. Then I get to help them with something else, like how to keep their avocados from turning brown. No, they don't really have brown avocados, that was just a way to explain things. Really? You're nice to offer, but I'm sure they don't need your recipe for guacamole. Seriously, they don't need it. Maybe another time.

17. Stryker [Medical Supplies]
HQ: Kalamazoo, Mich.
Sample Interview Question: Would you say you learn a lot about a little, or a little about a lot?
   I learned I wouldn't want to work for Stryker just reading this question. Somebody at headquarters probably has a framed copy of PT Barnum's "You can fool some of the people all of the time, all of the people some of the time, but you can't fool all the people all of the time.

18. Amazon.com [Retail Sales of music, video, books, entertainment]
HQ: Seattle, Wash.
Sample Interview Question: Come up with a formula to calculate the angle between the hour hand and the minute hand in a clock.
   I'd rather poke myself in the eye. Join me?

19. eBay [Internet Auctions]
HQ: San Jose, Calif.
Sample Interview Question: It's known that an egg broke when dropped from the 100th floor. Given two eggs, how do you figure out the highest floor an egg can be dropped from without breaking?
   Is this one of David Letterman's stupid people tricks? It should be.

20. Gallup [Consulting]
HQ: Washington, D.C.
Sample Interview Question: How did you prepare for our interview?
   I showered, brushed my teeth, shaved my legs, styled my hair, put on my favorite outfit and even found some clean underwear. What did you do?

Easter Leftovers

2011-06-10T18:07:00.007-05:00

Tonight is the last night of Passover, or was, since I neglected to post this entry in a timely fashion. Passover, as you may or may not know, is the Jewish holiday that overlaps with Easter because of the whole Last Supper thing. Passover is the silk thread of religious DNA that links the Judeo to the Christian heritage. It is worth noting that there are any number of 21st century Christians who are shocked to learn that Jesus was Jewish and his final meal was a seder.
   In the interest of full disclosure, despite having a Jewish grandmother, I was raised an Episcopalian, probably one of the most notoriously anti-semitic of all the varietals. Second only to the Catholics. My Jewish grandma married a Catholic, so clearly, they didn't get the memo. Over the years, dinner conversations might have been quite lively, but, my father was a psychoanalyst, so not talking was usually the easiest way to get through meals with him.
   Unlike Judaism, the five-thousand-year-old religion which gave us the Ten Commandments, membership in my hallowed, self-involved Episcopal sect began with a horny English King who was looking for a loophole in his pre-nup about five hundred years ago. Despite its unholy beginning, the Episcopal church has sunk its roots deep into English and American culture.
   Across the pond, they insist on calling themselves Anglicans, for those of you keeping track. Anything to distance themselves from the Yanks.
   Meanwhile, because Henry VIII was probably in such a rush to divorce his wives as fast as possible, the Episcopal/Anglican liturgy is virtually the same as the Catholic mass. Probably not enough time to make changes before the beheadings got underway. One notable exception to the sameness is the Lord's Prayer. The Catholics end their version early. Right after "...and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil," the prayer stops in its tracks. Episcopalians, on the other hand, who are inclined to embellish everything, opted for a big finish after deliverance from evil -- "For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever, amen!"
   Just an FYI -- the Episcopal and Catholic churches are also so similar on the outside that you can't tell them apart until you go inside and see • gasp • female priests blessing the wine and those strange, taste-free wafers and preaching from the pulpit. Definitely not Catholic.

The rampant ironies in Christianity's 57 varieties do not escape me. Nor do the stereotypes. Episcopal membership means that I'm 99% sure to be white, blond, and driving one of those suburban SUVs, sporting a hairdo that screams to be worn with large sunglasses, and talking on my iPhone. If I were married, my husband would look like Jimmy Stewart from It's a Wonderful Life. Our home would have a turret, our children would play soccer, and our dog would be a labradoodle. Years ago, in a moment of sharing stereotypes about our respective religions, I asked a Jewish friend how he could tell when a gentile family had moved into the neighborhood. He said, "When the wife is mowing the lawn."

Since my own wedding oh so many years ago, I've eschewed Sunday services whenever possible. Attendance for me is rare. Instead of spending Sunday mornings in church, I prefer watching Sunday Morning in bed. Props to the Catholics for having services at 5:00 PM Saturdays that cover your Sunday obligation. Best PR move they ever made. That and getting rid of fish on Friday. My Protestant mother, a nurse with nutrition training, thought having fish once a week was such a good idea, she adopted the Catholic Friday menu for our family. We also said the same grace. And our parish had a gay priest.

Not counting funerals and weddings, I've been to church only three times in the last seven years. The first time I went to my niece's baptism. The second time I went to her brother's baptism. And the third was this past weekend, when I went to her other brother's baptism.
Unlike the Catholic church, which considers baptism a preventive measure, like a vaccine, to be performed as quickly as possible following a baby's birth, the Episcopal church considers baptism a form of fraternity hazing. Something to endure to become a member of an exclusive club. Complete with WASP certification papers at the end. No hurry. But doing it sometime before the little rascals are potty trained has been suggested. Like circumcision, it's probably better to have no memory of the experience.

With only three children scheduled to be baptized into the fold, I thought we would be in and out in no time. But not when the event is scheduled for the Saturday night before Easter. Plenty of people showed up, no doubt so they could sleep in the next morning.

   To make sure everyone got their money's worth, the service was conducted by the light of flickering white candles we each held in our hands. Plus every prayer and supplication was sung in its entirety from beginning to end. And all were invited to come up and kneel at the railing, if not for communion, to at least have a blessing. We were getting the full monty.
   Yes, the candles were beautiful. Yes, the singing was pretty. But the melted wax sure was messy. And the dim light made reading the words of the songs nearly impossible. Not to mention what it was like making faces to keep my nephews and niece entertained. And my rear end from going numb.
   During the Nicene Creed, I kept wondering how long is this going to last? During the Handshake of Peace, I wondered whether this fairly recent addition to the Episcopal service was also borrowed from the Catholic mass, or was its appearance just a well-timed coincidence, like Armageddon and Final Contact having the exact same plot?
   Two hours. That's how long it took to get my three-year-old-almost-but-not-quite-potty-trained nephew baptized.
   The good news is now he's a member of the tribe. The bad news is I'm sure I'll have to do this drill again.

I'm gonna be an Episcopalian and you're not!

Messing With The Laundromat Rules

2011-06-06T20:02:00.002-05:00

Those of us with limited social lives have to seek our entertainment where we can. In my case, it's the laundromat. In a strip mall, between a Subway sandwich shop and my favorite Arab-owned Jewish deli, my town's single laundromat thrives as the only option for the washing machine challenged. As laundromats go, it is small and run down, but thanks to new ownership, it is plenty expensive. It's where I go to wash my down comforters and other large items, like car seats and lawn mower attachments.
   When the previous owners owned the place, they had hours you might expect for an establishment of washers and driers. They were open 16 hours a day. 7 AM to 11 PM. You could get in a load of wash at 7 AM and be on your way to work [if it wasn't too far] by 8:15. Or in by 9:45 at night and out before 11 PM.
   But the new owner instituted different rules. First he changed the hours. 7 AM to only 10 PM. That was bad enough. But now the last load of the day -- wash or dry -- had to be in the machine by 8:30 PM. If you weren't inside the laundromat by 8:30 PM, you would be locked out because he now has a cleaning crew there ready to shut the place down.
   One night I showed up at 8:15 and his crew had already locked the door. They gave me the universal shrug sign to indicate they 1] didn't speak English 2] didn't give a shit if it wasn't 8:30 3] weren't going to open the door for anyone, including a woman who was threatening to expose her 67 year old behind.
   I called the owner to suggest he might want to check up on his crew to make sure he wasn't losing even more night business than he already was with his stupid new lock out procedures.
   Out of spite and having way too much time on my hands, I began to show up every night for a week at 8:25. Yep I washed the same comforter five nights in a row just so the crew couldn't shut down the place at 8:30 and leave. Each night I stayed until ten so they had to wait until I left. I ran the machine twice before putting the comforter in the dryer. Or I put the heat on the coolest setting so it would take as long as possible to dry.
   One night someone showed up at 8:31 and they wanted to send them away. I said, oh no, they're coming in.
   Another night, the crew got tired of waiting around and left with plans to come back to close up at 10 -- the way it should be. Before leaving they made me and another patron who beat the 8:30 deadline promise not to let anyone else in. At 9, we let in a guy who only had to dry a load of clothes. It took him about sixteen minutes. And he still had almost 45 minutes to spare.
   After the fifth night, my comforter needed a break, and I was running out of quarters, so I stopped my personal crusade for a few days. But after a couple of weeks, I was back. Yep, five more days in a row. I brought my neighbor's comforter. I found some of my grandmother's acrylic afghans. I was in for the long haul. And I wish you could have heard the groan when the crew saw me pulling up in my car. One load of wash in the big washer, $5.00. Eight minutes in the dryer, $.25. The expression on their faces, priceless.
   The latest -- they're willing to let people in as long as they get there by 9:00 now. I'll have to come back to see if that only happens when I'm there. Or do I have to remind them once again that it's not nice to mess with Mrs. Linklater.

On the Road with Mrs. Linklater

2011-06-01T13:14:00.001-05:00

Travel tales. Sorry. I gave it a try, but I still don't like the GPS. Not when I have directions in hand. I prefer route numbers, when possible, not the local names of roads, thank you. And I'll pay my way to avoid traffic. The GPS on the rental car wanted me to take the business route which was free, instead of the toll bridge on my way back from the Outer Banks to Norfolk airport. But I took the toll bridge so I could ask the toll taker a question about our next exit. However, for some mysterious reason, our car had pre-paid the toll for the bridge, which meant I had just a few seconds to pass beneath the raised bar before it came crashing down on top of the car. "But what's the exit for route 64?" I whined as I began moving forward. "You've got two seconds and the bar is going to land on you!!" "Route 64?" I pleaded, as we drove out of sight. "Exit *MUMBLE MUMBLE*" shouted the toll taker into the wind. Just as the bar missed the car's trunk by its chinny chin chin. Naturally, despite my efforts to ignore the woman who lives inside the GPS, she picked up where she left off and began ordering us around in time to take a shortcut to the rental car return via the cargo exit, which would have been all well and good if we hadn't been looking for a gas station, not a short cut. All so we could fill up the tank and save some surcharge money. BTW -- Gas was $3.59 in Virginia. It's as much as $4.39 around Chicago. The surcharge might end up being less than the cost of gas here.

Travel tales foodwise. Ordering Starbuck's Fraps in airports is risky. I've learned over the years that asking for more than three things in a Starbuck's drink is asking for trouble. Even at a Starbuck's you patronize every day. The size of the drink, the type of coffee, and a flavor are all that most baristas can handle. So my attempts to procure a Decaf Tall Mocha Frap with a shot of Hazelnut is fraught with possible errors. I don't even bother to add "With no whipped cream" until they're almost done. Only two times out of ten has this concoction tasted the way I think it was meant to taste, i.e., with hazelnut and mocha. At the Norfolk airport, next to gate B16, the order taking barista thought I meant a shot of espresso instead of a shot of hazelnut, although I don't know how she confused espresso with hazelnut, except that she wasn't listening. When I queried the other barista tasked with making said order into something I could consume, the error in her playback made the mistake apparent. So another Decaf Tall Mocha Frap with a shot of Hazelnut was started. You'd think that care and concern would be part of the second equation, except it wasn't. One sip of the latest efforts and I realized that mocha and hazelnut had still not been included. Time to just get on the plane.

Travel tales baggage wise. For half an hour the luggage carousel number for our flight wasn't posted. I talked to a woman in charge of tracking lost luggage and taking complaints, who informed me that there was lightning outside, so all luggage operations were suspended. Every so often we checked the monitors waiting for the weather to get better. But no carousel was posted on the monitor as time continued to tick away. We checked the carousels, too, looking for the flight number, just in case. Nothing. I noticed other flights after ours had carousel numbers already posted. Ours still didn't. Again, I asked the woman in charge of misinformation about the luggage. This time, she asked for my luggage tag number, since I must have made a mistake. "Aha! Your luggage has been around three times already." she practically shouted. "But the carousel number is not posted. Anywhere." I whined. "Didn't you hear the announcement? It's on carousel three," she said with smug satisfaction. "Have YOU ever heard an announcement in an airport?" I replied, wanting to poke her in the eye, after realizing that the crackling and buzzing I heard earlier must have been what she referred to. Then, in a moment of maturity I added, "You're an idiot!" And left to get my luggage. As we were leaving, I noticed the carousel number still wasn't posted on the monitor. Nor was the flight number posted on the carousel where the luggage arrived. So I stopped by the desk to repeat my sentiments from earlier, "In case you didn't hear me, you're an idiot." For some reason she didn't make eye contact. This story will not make it into the next volume of Chicken Soup for the Soul. Unless they change it to Chicken Shit.

Maybe I'm Just a Crabby Old Lady

2011-05-26T19:35:00.002-05:00

I think I lost my sense of humor. I checked all my pockets, looked behind the bathroom door, even put my hand down the black hole between the console and the seat of the car -- nothing.
   Maybe it's because June is a couple of days away and it's 41 degrees and raining here. Still.
   Maybe it's because some kid snapped the buds off my tulips. And continues to live.
   Maybe it's because my car failed the emissions test -- you mean the check engine light is there for a reason?
   Maybe it's because projects I thought were moving ahead are dead in the water. Anybody need some snappy website patter?
   Maybe it's because every time I order a de-caf tall mocha frappacino with a shot of hazelnut it never tastes the same twice. And at an airport Starbuck's, a mocha coconut frap cost me almost $10 with a slice of banana nut bread.
   Maybe it's because the IRS thinks I'm the central bank. Hello?!
   Maybe it's because I watched a barista make one of those costly fraps and noticed that 94.2% of the drink was crushed ice.
   Maybe it's because Kim Kardashian has a $2M engagement ring. Just for showing up.
   Maybe because the only grab ass I've had lately was during my "You-with-the-hip-replacements-over-here!" TSA pat down. By a woman.
   Maybe because the movie on my flight had to be re-booted three times before it took. My tray table looked like someone tried to wipe it off with spit. My salmon dinner smelled like fish. And I was in First Class.
   Maybe because my doctor kept prefacing the results of my lab tests with "For your age. . ."
   Maybe because I not only have a cough, but I'm wheezing.
   Maybe because my bills have to be paid every month, not just when I'm in the mood.
   Maybe because the funniest thing I heard all week was when I grumbled at someone I thought was checking my ID and boarding pass, "What do YOU want from me?" And all he said was, "How about a smile?" Which I did. And he waved me on.
   Maybe because all those maybes are just the tip of the iceberg.
   Hard to tell, but I just spent a fabulous week in Hawaii.

Mother's Day Came To An Unexpected End

2011-05-10T23:07:00.004-05:00

Mother's Day was a lovely day. Fabulous Crab Cake Benedict at my new favorite restaurant, as the guest of my beautiful older daughter. Phone calls and good wishes via text added to the delicious start of the day. Not one problem with the beginning. It's the end of Mother's Day that's still got me cranked.
   My mother died in 1966. A long time ago. So long, it was easier to give the date than do the math. About ten years after she died, a brother of mine sent me several white parrot tulip bulbs with an order to plant them in the beautiful church cemetery where her ashes are buried. [This same brother also starting painting my hallway at midnight once, so he tends to live his life in overdrive and drag everybody along with him.]
   Meanwhile, the cemetery is so pretty you wouldn't know it was a graveyard except for the brass plaques on the stone walls, most of which are hidden by an epic amount of euonymous. I went there to do as I was told, only to discover there were already some pretty flowers blooming in the spot where we buried my mother's robin's egg blue china urn.
   So I planted the tulips outside my back door along the driveway. The very next Mother's Day I had so many gorgeous white blooms, I was glad I couldn't plant them in the cemetery. For the first few years they grew and multiplied undisturbed, a lovely bouquet each spring to remind me of the person I missed most in my life. But I should have known the critters would take a liking to them also. Squirrels or rabbits finally got to them one year, because suddenly one spring there was only one plant left. With just a few blooms. The daffodils I'd planted in the backyard were gone too. Everything just vanished. Over time the remaining tulip blooms have increased and this year there were so many I even thought about splitting up the bulbs.
   That is, until the end of an otherwise wonderful Mother's Day. For some reason, between the hours of 5 and 7 PM, while I was inside doing something else, a little gremlin plucked all the tops off the impending blooms. Quite neatly, too. All but one, which was so small I think the little s**t just missed it. Then whoever did the dastardly deed laid the buds out carefully on the driveway in a neat, straight row, after first tearing the petals apart. Is there a metaphor for squashing the kid like a bug? That's a simile. Good enough. All the anticipation I had saved up waiting to see what those beautiful white fleurs would look like this year was crushed to dust in a moment by some curious kid, who obviously doesn't have parents.
   Normally I'm one of those people who rarely gets outwardly angry about something I cannot fix. I can even be understanding from time to time. Accidents do happen. Plus there's plenty of other things just waiting to piss me off. But, despite my outward zen, I have been known to seethe inside. Which I guarantee is still taking place 48 hours later. I can't believe some twit had the nerve to twank the flowers that were planted to remember my mother on Mother's Day.
   So when I say to the unnamed, prepubescent perpetrator, seriously, do not mess with Mrs. Linklater's tulip bulb karma, you undisciplined little turd...he or she should be afraid. Very afraid.