Shorty PJs

The Wonder Years

2012-01-22T18:35:00.003-05:00

Thanks to Netflix streaming video, Roku, and a snowy weekend, I been lost in The Wonder Years over the past two days. I thought I'd just watch one or two then move on, but I got caught up in the wonder-fulness of it all. The writing and Daniel Stern's narration, a la A Christmas Story, perfectly captures life on Planet Middle School - at least the Planet Middle School of the 1960s/70s.

Everykid Kevin, played to perfection by cutie-pie Fred Savage, drags all of us back through the horrors and joys and back through the horrors of being 12, 13. 14. Emotional wounds - long since healed (or so we thought) - have those scabs ruthlessly ripped off during each episode. Lockers, junior high dances, bullies, Phys Ed disasters, parent-child battles, crushes, break-ups, misunderstandings, first phone calls, fashion, peer pressure, looking cool - is it all coming back to you now? Eeek.

Terminally-allergic Paul and the object of everyone's affection Winnie round out the trio of friends. Each brings a different facet of adolescent experience to the party. The Arnold Family is fairly normal as television families go. The parents aren't idiots, though Dad is kind of tough and grumbly. Brother Wayne is a real jerk and sister Karen tends toward hippie-militant, but the family sticks together, just like most of our families did. And the other characters that tromp through are recognizable.

I wonder if the cringe-worthy moments that take us back to our own junior high experiences resonate at all with 21st century kids. Certainly, the phone call terrors have disappeared, since a lot of ice is broken via email and Facebook now, I suppose. Have Phys Ed teachers changed? Do kids agonize over what to wear to school? Do they pass notes or slip them into lockers? Do they even have lockers?

No matter. Well done, The Wonder Years cast and crew. Your show withstands the test of time, at least for those of us who endured growing up in the pre-internet age.

Hey, we all got by with a little help from our friends.

2012-01-16T19:18:00.000-05:00

I spent the afternoon at the 9/11 Memorial site in Lower Manhattan, walking around the two huge building-footprint fountains, reading the names, and trying to imagine what it must have been like for them on that day a little over ten years ago.

Today was bright and blue and bitter cold. With pass in hand, I worked my way through the security checkpoints (the pass is checked four or five times during the entry process) and made my way to the fountains. The names are arranged by special groupings - First Responders, World Trade Center South or North, etc., which is a nice touch, more personal, than if they were listed alphabetically. The names include not only those who died in the towers on 9/11, but those who died at the Pentagon, on Flights 175, 77, 11, and 93, and at the World Trade Center in 1993.

While I didn't read every single name, I did walk along all four sides of both fountains touching and reading names along the way. It hit me harder than I thought it would. Each one of those people had families, friends, and co-workers who are left with memories, whys, and what-ifs. I was surprised by the number of women's names that included "and her unborn child" etched along the walls. Sad, sad, sad.

The museum is not yet open (I recommend visiting St. Paul's Chapel for a good collection of 9/11 memorabilia), so I'll have to go back when it's complete. But on this freezing cold January day, it was enough to take time to walk around touching the names of the people who lost their lives in this one particular slice of Hell on September 11, 2001.

Bucheron & Skordalia, Patti & Mandy

2012-01-14T12:43:00.000-05:00

One of the truly fabulous things about living in New York City is that no matter the day or season, there is an infinite variety of top-notch restaurants and first-rate theatre experiences that you can combine to create an unforgettable experience. And so it was Monday night.

After a long day's work, I made my way from 2nd Avenue & 43rd to 9th Avenue & 56th to Kashkaval Cheese Market to meet good friend Susie - in from Omaha and wrapping up a week of intense theatre-going - and new friends Thom and Adam. We had tickets for An Evening with Patti LuPone & Mandy Patinkin and wanted to chow down before the show. Well, the food and the company was truly top-notch. Plates of interesting cheese and meats, tapas spreads, homemade baguettes and pita bread, soup, sandwiches - well, check out the menu and give it a try sometime.

I was in the midst of theatre-folk - Susie, Associate Director of Omaha Community Playhouse, and Thom and Adam run the New York theatre scene (right, Thom? Adam?) - so I just sat back and listened to all the foot light wise-ness and chatter. The food was a lovely complement to the conversation.

Then, we were off to the show. Susie and I had great seats, Row H on the aisle. I was as up-close as I wanted to be, so we just sat back and let the music and entertainment wash over us. All the artists were on-stage, Patti, Mandy, musical director/pianist Paul Ford (from Atlanta, back in the Manhattan Yellow Pages cabaret era), and John Beal on bass. Anyone else in the mix would've been too much.

Musical numbers included the expected - lots of Sondheim - and the unexpected - lots of Rodgers and Hammerstein. We got to witness Mandy's "Oh What a Circus" and Patti's "Don't Cry for Me Argentina" (they were Broadway's Che and Evita). Teared up during "If I Loved You" and "You'll Never Walk Alone" (I know, so trite).

After the show we waited outside to greet Paul Ford (yeah, everyone else was waiting for Patti and Mandy). He and Susie talked old Atlanta cabaret times for a bit, and then we called it a night.

Full of fine cheese, bread, Richard, Oscar, Stephen, et. al., I slid away uptown to my little Spanish Harlem turret. Just another night in New York City.

Wishes for the 2012 World

2011-12-31T12:33:00.001-05:00

2011 is draggin' its tired old butt toward its death at midnight. A brand new baby year will be born, and like all babies, it carries our hopes and dreams of health and happiness. But as with human babies, years have a tendency to weave their way through ups and downs, the good and the bad.

Still, I offer up three wishes for the world and the new baby 2012. While, of course, I hope for world peace and the end of hunger and human suffering, I'm pragmatic enough to know that all of those things may not happen within the next 12 months, so I'll scale back on the grandiose and wish for the possibles.

Common courtesy, civility, better listening and understanding among folks. People are angry, I get that. People - well, mainly politicians - think compromise is weak and winning the day is the central goal (even if it means losing the future). Appalling things are said. Publicly. And spun throughout the media and on social networks, where they reverberate in dangerous, immoral ways. My wish for 2012 is that everyone would think before they speak or bang out something to the internet. Be nice It won't compromise your ideals, it will enhance them.
An end to intergenerational squabbling. We're all in this together, people, from the newly-born to the nearly-dead. Each generation is complex; each has its inventors, dictators, artists, and baby-killers. Each has unique struggles and problems to face. (Example, "the Greatest Generation," is a term coined by Tom Brokaw in 1998, not a moniker pre-ordained by God. I seem to recall they were seen as the bad guys, creators of the soul-sucking military-industrial complex, for a few decades. See how fortunes change?) I guess in some sense, every generation "steals" from the next, but it also provides new ways of coping and changing the world for good. Attacking the problems of unemployment, lousy health care and education, and diminishing quality of life benefits should be what we're all working for, across generations. Be nice (see wish #1).
An end to anything relating to the Kardashians. Please. I know this can happen because I wished for the same thing to happen to Paris Hilton a few years back. Go. Away. And y'all stop watching and feeding this disgusting display of silliness.

In short, let's be nicer and encourage everyone else (folks on the street, TSA, politicians, CEOs, and our children) to be nicer. If we manage that then the intergenerational pissing and moaning will go away, as will anyone's need to feed the Kardashian machine.

Who knows? Maybe world peace will follow.

The Days Fly Swiftly By

2011-12-20T10:12:00.002-05:00

Time always moves too fast for me this time of year. I love the time between Thanksgiving Day and Christmas Day, but most especially the week leading up to the big day. I arrived in Atlanta early Saturday morning and am trying to be present in every moment, because it will all be over in the blink of an eye.

The schedule has been jam-packed, running errands, partying with the family, lunching with friends, frantically wrapping presents, even managing to get a few hours sleep every night. But even amidst the frenzy (and I mean "frenzy" in a good way), I'm trying to savor each minute. The traditions and memories of this time of year is what winds me up to go forward into the new year. Sounds like a lot of pressure for a few days out of 365, but even when I've encountered a "blue" Christmas or two in my life, enough of the season's spirit works its way into my soul.

Highlights so far:

A long, late lunch with daughter Kate on Saturday. Burgers, a bottle of wine, and lots of time to catch up. Best Christmas present ever.
The annual Bully Bartow Family Christmas Gathering, this year for the first time in Dalton, Georgia, at niece Ashley's house. Always fun. Always too much yummy food. Always proof-positive that a big, close family is what makes life worth living. Thanks, Ashley, Roger, Hope, Halle, Bryleigh, and Jaxon for being fabulous hosts!
Playing with GrandBoy. Everything from hitting a bouncy ball with a cardboard wrapping paper tube, to dancing around to the Thomas the Tank Engine song, reading storybooks, and playing with his huge array of toy cars - laughter and hugs always ensue. (And he can almost say GrandMary!)

Today, we get to take advantage of son-in-law's day off to finish up shopping, gather the gifts for our Angel Tree family, lunch together, and enjoy every special instant. Still, it all seems to be flying by. I wish there was a way to do all that we've been doing, yet have the minutes go more slowly.

Wonder if Einstein had a solution for this dilemma?

It's Christmastime in the City

2011-12-11T09:26:00.001-05:00

I spent yesterday finishing up my Christmas shopping and soaking in the spirit of the season as only New York City can throw at you. It was the Saturday when Santas and their elves hit the streets full force, flash-mobbing all around the town. Here's a taste of the mobs, the lights, the city.

Along 5th Avenue, each store is more audaciously decorated than the next.

I stopped by the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see the tree of angels. Photographs are not allowed in front of the tree, but perhaps you can tell a little about it from this angle. Gorgeous angels and tiny white candles are spaced all over the tree, while around the bottom is the Nativity scene and little village motifs. It really is magnificent.

Part of the Santa flash-mob at Grand Central Terminal. They were a friendly, fun bunch.

One of the Bergdorf-Goodman windows.

"The Tree." The Rockefeller Center tree is just beautiful this year. It always takes the breath away, but this one does seem to out-do past trees.

It's a great time to be in New York!

Why We Need a Postal Service

2011-12-10T09:34:00.001-05:00

These are dark times for the US Postal Service. It's billions of dollars in the red. Post offices are closing left and right, and not just rural ones; several in Manhattan are closing, as well. First-class postage will now take a minimum of two days, not one (even just across town?). The elimination of Saturday delivery is a real possibility. Postage rates are going up.

And, let's face it, "going postal" should apply more to the customer than the postal worker. Every time you walk into a post office you find long lines with only one or two folks at the counter, while 14 other postal workers stroll through the back, look at the crowds, make a few jokes, maybe shift a package, then saunter back to the break room.

No matter how much grousing and grumbling those of us in line do for the 45 minutes we're standing there, it's darn certain that at least one of those two folks behind the counter will be scheduled for lunch/bathroom/grocery shopping, put up a "Window Closed" sign, and leave the counter. Not one of the 14 saunterers will come to take his/her place, either. And the line of customers just gets longer. So it's a wonder the folks in line aren't the ones going postal. It's outrageous.

And yet, I'm here to defend this noble, wounded institution. Why? Because:

In this age of email and instant messaging, there is nothing better than going to the mailbox and finding a hand-addressed card, note, or letter from a friend, acquaintance, or family member. The card or stationery, the stamp, the signature and note all took thought and care, even if the handwriting is barely readable. It's special in a way that email and texting can never be.
Wedding invitations, thank you notes, birth announcements, party invitations (I always do real ones + e-vite ones to cover all bases), and Christmas and birthday cards should always come via snail-mail. They are special. They are personal. They demand a little extra effort because they are keepsakes. Electronic versions of all of these get deleted and disappear into air, but real, actual cards are things to enjoy for years. I keep all of my birthday and Christmas cards. I love going through them each year. Can't/won't do that with email, even the lovely Jacquie Lawson e-cards.
Have you sent anything via UPS or FedEx recently? If so, you've got a lot more disposable income than I have. You may as well hand-deliver those wedding invitations and Christmas cards. Airfare to 96 locations is cheaper than sending them individually by FedEx/UPS. Go to their websites and try to get a quick rate quote. Good luck. And yet, for well under $1, you can send a card or letter through the US Postal Service, and it pretty much always gets to where it's going within a couple of days. (By the way, if the check really was in the mail, you'd have it by now.)

Stamps. I love stamps. I love commemorative stamps. No need to stand in the "going postal" line to get them. I order mine online directly from USPS, and they get to me within two days. Plus, you can design your own stamps now. Very cool. UPS and FedEx = no wonderful stamps, just boring informational stuff. Shoot, I say, raise the rate of a first class stamp to $1 (which should include delivery insurance). Still way, way cheaper than a delivery service.
No need to arrange special pick-ups or get out of your jammies to go to a special store to get your missed delivery or mail a fist-full of cards. Mail comes right to your home and office! How convenient is that? Plus, you can dump all those cards in conveniently-located blue mail boxes. They're all over the place.
Flat-rate boxes. Love 'em. If you can fit whatever you're shipping into a USPS small, medium, or large box, it goes out for one flat advertised price. If that 40-lb brick fits into a small flat-rate box? $4.95 (a little cheaper if you pay and print out your label online). It's a real money-saver for our little Elegant Scribbles business, where we often have to ship back and forth. Plus, they usually arrive at the destination within three days.

Yes, the post office needs to clean up its business. My suggestion is to start with the surly, incompetent folks who work in post offices (take fewer breaks; if there are more than three people in line, add more counter help; pay attention to the customer). Go ahead and up the postage rate to $1. And, yes, if need be, do away with Saturday service.

But keep the stamps coming. Stick with those flat-rate mailers. Keep using that cute little guy in your commercials. Keep putting wonderful cards and notes in my own little mailbox. Make Benjamin Franklin proud!

Fail . . . Pass. Perspective

2011-12-03T09:34:00.000-05:00

I chalked up a massive Fail last week. In an effort to jump-start one of my personal writing projects, I signed on to the infamous NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). The goal is that between November 1st and 30th, hopeful writers will churn out a 50,000-word novel. And I was hopeful.

Three pretty darn good stories lie fallow on my computer. Once in a while I drag out one or the other of them, flesh out a little more, and make some headway. Then the real world of getting day-to-day things done intrudes, and the story stays safely tucked away in its own little Word file until the writing bug nibbles again. Sigh.

So, yes, I was NaNoWriMo-hopeful. I started out well enough. At least for the first two or three days. But even knocking myself out to write 1600+ words a day - either getting up early or staying up late to do it - proved beyond me. I got so far behind that I realized I'd never get anywhere close to 50,000 words as the days ticked away. Massive fail. Sigh.

All was not lost, thankfully. Those few NaNoWritMo days pushed me to move my story forward and rethink the characters and plot. Perhaps if I start gearing up mentally for next November's event in, say, August, I can pass the test of finishing one of my stories. Until then, I'll have to mark the effort a big ol' "Fail."

On a more successful note, I passed my colonoscopy with flying colors. Perspective, friends. Perspective.

Out-of-Season Thinking

2011-11-29T13:12:00.001-05:00

I've been tinkering with a reflection I agreed to write for a Lenten meditation booklet, and tomorrow's the deadline. My little piece is almost finished, but I think it lacks a "soul," mainly because I'm not in the mood for Lent. I'm in the mood for Advent and Christmas. These things are always written well in advance - not unlike the way we used to create Christmas commercials during the summertime when I was in the TV biz, so I'm forced to think about the privations of 40 days/40 nights rather than give in to my wintertime festive feelings.

It's hard to pull away from Advent and bring some new insight to Lent. I'm not good at Lent, anyway. I'm always in Advent-mode, always waiting for Christmas instead of Easter. I guess that makes me a bad Christian, but, well, there it is. Resurrection is phenomenal, miraculous, but way beyond my understanding. But a baby born in a manger, with angels and shepherds all around? Why, I can write about that till the cows come home.

Folks often compare Advent and Lent since they are, by tradition, periods of self-reflection and anticipation of bigger moments to come. But let's face it, Advent is happier, more hopeful, plus, we tend to indulge instead of deny during this season, which is a lot more fun. Lent is just - well - long. And depressing. And nobody wants to go out to eat or do anything jolly because they've given it up for Lent.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm bad at self-reflection, despite being in desperate need of it, obviously. Here's my brand of self-reflection: "Well, that was a stupid thing to do; don't do that again." Then I move on. And I'm a really bad meditator. I start out OK but eventually drift into thinking about all the stuff I should be doing while I'm just sitting and meditating. So I get up and do whatever it is I need to do. Being quiet and still, like one is supposed to be during these things, is not one of my gifts. I do quiet and still when I'm asleep, though even then I toss and turn and talk. So, no. Not good at quiet reflection and meditation.

But I figure God made me this way and gave me other ways to sort out the answers to big questions about myself and the world. You quiet meditators out there will just have to accept that about me. But this post is moving me no closer to the Lenten meditation finish line, so I'll sign off and hope for the desert-like feeling of Lent to descend upon me.

I will, however, have one eye on the little Christmas tree in the corner of my office. Sigh.

Our Cups (and Plates) Overfloweth

2011-11-24T19:01:00.000-05:00

On this Thanksgiving Day I realize how supremely blessed I am, surrounded by family and friends, way too much excellent food, good health, laughter, and love.

All the planning and preparation for the annual feast culminated in a crowded table, prayer, moments of silence as we inhaled our food, remembering those who aren't able to be with us, and lively discussion.

In the midst of political cynicism and deep philosophical divide, it's a wondrous thing to stop, think about all we do have, and give thanks. Happy Thanksgiving!

Over the River and Through the Air

2011-11-17T19:14:00.000-05:00

. . . to GrandBoy's house I go. Even though Thanksgiving is a week away, I head for Atlanta tomorrow morning. I can't wait. Work has been brutal of late, and it will be good to be in a different place and atmosphere. I want to be with my family, eat Southern food, lunch with friends, maybe take in a movie - you know, life-stuff. And it's all wrapped up in what Thanksgiving should be.

I love, love, love being with my family and friends around the Thanksgiving table. I love that everyone has a special dish(es) they bring to the feast - dishes that, were they not to appear on the table, would somehow lessen the holiday. Deviled eggs and sweet potato casserole. Pumpkin pies. Cheesy potato casserole. Cranberry salad. And of course, turkey with cornbread dressing. Yeah, it's a lot of food. But that food represents more than nourishment. It represents love and tradition. All of it is "soul" food.

Anticipating next Thursday's gathering and the quality time between now and then, my Grinch-ness is disappearing, and I'm feeling warm and toasty inside. I look forward to recharging my spirit and energy. It's just the beginning of being truly thankful.

Autumn in the City

2011-11-12T18:48:00.000-05:00

I spent the afternoon strolling around Madison Square Park and Gramercy Park this afternoon, just to get one more look at the leaves. Since I leave for a little Thanksgiving break in Atlanta next Friday, I expect "fall" to have occurred by the time I get back to New York the Saturday after Turkey Day. In spite of the Halloween snows, the trees still have lovely muted colors. It is such a beautiful time of the year, these weeks leading into Thanksgiving and Christmas. Gorgeous!

11/11/11

2011-11-11T17:47:00.000-05:00

Thank you to all who have served to protect our Constitution and our freedoms over the years. Thank you to those who served in that awful war leading up to the first Armistice celebration in 1918. It's a good day to watch "All Quiet on the Western Front," read some of the Great War poets, and say thank you to everyone who has served in uniform over the years. In honor of all veterans, here are pictures of my daddy and mother, who both served in the US Navy during World War II.

November Run

2011-11-06T15:06:00.001-05:00

No not me. I don't run. I walk really fast, but I don't run. But I do like to cheer others on, and that's what I did for a little while this afternoon. I stood on 5th Avenue and lent my meager support to the runners in the New York City Marathon. By the time they get to the top end of Central Park, their 26.2 mile hustle through all five boroughs is almost at an end. Some are running strong. Some are walking. Some are obviously in pain and just limping along.

To all the marathoners, I salute you! Now, I'm going to settle back in my easy chair, eat some homemade vegetable soup with cornbread, and rest up from all the cheering I did.

Happy Halloween, y'all

2011-10-31T12:07:00.000-04:00

My favorite Halloween picture ever (until this year, of course). Last year's costume for GrandBoy: Unhappy Monkey. Oh, the humiliation! Have a happy and safe Halloween, everyone.

A Halloween Carol

2011-10-29T17:15:00.012-04:00

A Halloween Carol
(to the tune of White Christmas)

I'm living through a white Halloween,
Unlike the ones I've ever known.
Where the ghouls and goblins
Go apple bobblin'
Amidst snowballs being thrown.
(mwah-ha, mwah-ha, mwah-ha-ha)

I'm living through a white Halloween,
With every Boris Karloff flick.
May your treats out-number
Your tricks.
But let's save the snow for St. Nick.

Yes, the Winter Storms Began

2011-10-29T16:59:00.000-04:00

Well, the gates to the Conservatory Garden were locked, but I think it's safe to say that it doesn't look much like it did last weekend. What an odd storm.

E're the Winter Storms Begin

2011-10-29T08:47:00.000-04:00

A Nor'easter's due to blow through sometime this evening. Before we're lashed with wind, rain, and snow, I thought I'd show you what Central Park's Conservatory Garden looked like last weekend. The flowers were gorgeous. Not sure they'll make it through this weekend's weather, though. Enjoy!

Halloween Horror Hits: Week of October 23

2011-10-26T22:12:00.002-04:00

Double your pleasure, double your fun. For this week leading up to October 31, let me suggest a few seasonal pairings (plus one tripling) to help you ward off the evil spirits well into the night. Pull your chair a little closer to the warm glow of your computer screen or 60" plasma TV and stock up on popcorn and "fun size" Snicker bars. Here we go.

The Shining (1980) and The Shinning (1994). One stars Jack Nicholson and Shelly Duvall, the other stars Bart and Homer Simpson. Nicholson's a nutcase and Shelly needs to wash her hair. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. Shivery stuff. Until you watch the Simpsons' version. Memorable line: "Usually the blood gets off at the second floor." My suggestion is to watch the scary one first, then enjoy the parody. Bart and Homer really take the edge off Nicholson.

Halloween (1978) and Carrie (1976). Jamie Lee Curtis in one, Sissy Spacek in the other, P.J. Soles in both. Do not mess with high school girls. Trouble seems to follows these little darlin's wherever they go. The teenage boys don't stand a chance - they are all doomed from the start. Pumpkins, predators, periods, and proms - terrifying stuff. Totally.

The Bride of Frankenstein (1935) and Gods and Monsters (1998). And if you want a real film-fest, toss in Young Frankenstein (1974). If you can only watch one James Whale Frankenstein movie, go for Bride. It's got everything you need to get the gist of Gods and Monsters, Young Frankenstein, and any good Carol Burnett sketch. Elsa Lanchester's coif alone is worthy of timeless honor and praise, but Bride is loaded with iconic images and quotes that ripple through the other two films. "To a new world of gods and monsters!"

Now go make friends - or do I mean, "fiends"? - with crazy cabin-fevered writers, knife-wielding teenage girls, and monsters with fabulous hair.

Book Bind

2011-10-19T18:27:00.002-04:00

I'm fresh out of reading material - actual books, virtual books, audio books - and so I turn again to you, dear blog-buddies, for suggestions.

Here's what I don't want: I'm not in the mood for non-fiction, unless it's a rip-roaring read (like, oh, say, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil), and I don't need anything that's going to tax my brain at this particular time of year, so no existentialistic, uber-cerebral junk. Oh, and no romance crapola, either. In short, I'm looking for a plain, ol' good story.

So, I put it to you, friends: What's the last good book you read, the one that you didn't want to put down?

I'll even contribute to the conversation. A few weeks ago I read Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen, a book I'd put off reading for a while. Well, little Shorties, I couldn't read the thing fast enough! I highly recommend it if you've been putting off reading it, too.

Don't feel compelled to write a book review; a title and author are sufficient. Raves and book reviews are always welcome, however.

Please, please send me something that will make me read late, late into the night.

Klutz Day

2011-10-18T22:54:00.000-04:00

Ever have one of those days where you run into things, trip over invisible objects, and drop everything you pick up? Sure you have. And so have I. Today.

I dropped everything from brushes to pens to a bowl of spinach (which I managed to catch just before it hit the floor - whew)!. Stuff just slid through my fingers all day long. But that's not the worst of it.

The worst of it was running full-speed-ahead into a whacking great iron air-conditioner cage on my way to work. These may just be New York head-bangers. No one in my 'hood wants their street-level a/c stolen from the window, so they encase them in thick iron-barred cages that protrude a couple of feet from the side of buildings. At least, that's how it works in Spanish Harlem.

Anyway, I was walking - which, if you know me, means a marathoner's running speed - head down, so I wouldn't trip over something on the sidewalk, when - bam! One of these a/c iron-barred cages slapped me upside the head. My first thought was "Who hit me with a shovel?" The corner of the thing bit me right at my forehead and hairline. Bit is not strong enough, unless the bite is coming from a Great White Shark.

Color me one stunned klutz. A single trickle of blood made its way down my forehead, but I had no idea how bad it was. I was close enough to my apartment to stagger back to survey the damage. Fortunately, the cut was minor, but I do have a lump the size of, oh, somewhere between a golf ball and tennis ball. Yeah, big. And, yeah, I put ice on it immediately.

Even knowing that it was my Klutz Day, I went on to work. I needed folks to keep an eye on me, in case I went to sleep and didn't wake up. Ibuprofen helped. A lot. And it was a fairly productive day, despite all the time spent picking up stuff I'd dropped.

Here's hoping tomorrow is my Graceful Day. I can't afford another lump on my head. I'm fuzzy-brained enough, as it is.

Halloween Horror Hits, Week of October 16

2011-10-18T21:45:00.002-04:00

Another October week has passed, and though I spent four of the last seven days at a conference in Colorado, I managed to view some pretty good scary movies via my trusty netbook. I'm dying to see PT's suggestion of "Dead of Night," but it's not offered on Netflix or Hulu. I'm on the look-out and will find it before Halloween. It's obviously a classic I've missed along the way.

Here are this week's suggestions:

The Fog (1980) - A John Carpenter film with Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, Janet Leigh, John Houseman. Better than I thought it would be (why am I suspicious of Adrienne Barbeau movies?), in fact it was darn good. Not John Carpenter/Jamie Lee Curtis/Halloween good, but scary just the same. Weird revengeful-zombie-filled fog takes over a Northern California fishing town. Choose this one, not the 2005 remake. I mean, wouldn't you rather watch Adrienne Barbeau and Jamie Lee Curtis?

Knife Edge (2009) - Standard busy-professionals-move-to-big-creepy-county-house thing, but I kinda like standard busy-professionals-move-to-big-creepy-county-house things, so it held my interest. Took me a while to figure out who the baddie was (I thought it was the Joan Plowright character for a while), so it held my interest. If you like standard busy-professionals-move-to-big-creepy-county-house things, too, you might like it.

Burn, Witch, Burn (1962) - Lousy title for a pretty good little movie. Professor who teaches about psychological effects superstitions finds his wife engaging in various forms of voodoo and witchcraft, claiming to do it to protect her husband from jealous colleagues. A few twists and turns, plus a giant stone eagle comes to life. A nice cozy little black-and-white movie, perfect for the season of Halloween.

Move that bowl of candy corn a little closer, and be prepared to be . . . mwah-ha-ha . . .spooked!

Halloween Horror Hits, Week of October 9

2011-10-11T20:25:00.002-04:00

You know how much I love my Halloween movies. Only scary stuff radiates from my television, DVD player, and computer screen during the month of October. I mean, if you can't dig down into the depths of your twisted psyche during the season of ghosties and ghoulies, when can you, eh?

I stand by my list of Halloween film fare criteria and my favorite Halloween movies posted in 2005. Do your homework, and check it out here. But every year I find new classics (oxymoron?) to add to my annual Film Fear Fest. So each week for the rest of the month, I'll post three movies worthy to add to my Halloween list that I've discovered/re-discovered, thanks to streaming video on the web.

Here are the Halloween Horror Hits, week of October 9

Dr. Terror's House of Horrors (1965): Here's a British offering, starring the UK's equivalent of Boris Karloff/Vincent Price, Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing. The token American is a young Donald Sutherland. Six strangers on a train, tarot card readings, bizarre glimpses into the future, and a Twilight Zone-y kind of ending. What's not to love?

The Bat (1959): This one surprised me, in a good way. I was expecting the standard Vincent Price thing, but Agnes Moorehead rules this one. She's a mystery writer staying in an old spooky mansion where the owner has hidden cash he stole from his own bank. Agnes is fearless. No squealing, frightened woman is she! Bonus: a grown up Darla Hood puts in an appearance. It's a good little thriller. And, yes, bats - the flying kind - are involved.

Ghost Story (1981): Hadn't seen this film in years, and I'm so glad I watched it again. Four old guys (Fred Astaire, John Houseman, Melvin Douglas, and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr) must pay for a great sin they committed as young men. Lots of creepy, scary stuff, perfect New England setting. Good stuff!

OK. Go forth and stream a good scary flick. I'll see if I can find three more good 'uns by next week. Now, pass the candy corn.

The Spooklie Awards 2011

2011-10-07T22:00:00.005-04:00

The Spooklie Awards are back! I created them in 2006 with the idea of turning them into an annual awards - much like those Nobel thingys - but, hey, things happen, and here it is five years later. Perhaps these awards are so special that they only come around every five years. Gives us a chance to get perspective on what's really scaring us. Anyway, that's my rationalization, so deal with it.

The purpose of the Spooklies, according to my brilliantly written 2006 post:

Scary things are all around us - not just in October - so I am hereby instituting awards that hold aloft the everyday creepy, spooky, and downright blood-curdling stuff of life - past and present, personal and collective, specific and general.

I'll have to shake the categories up a bit, since some of them will forever be won by the 2006 winners. For example, algebra is still the scariest school subject and always will be, so I'll retire that one. Now, drumroll - er, piercing scream - please, for this year's Spooklie Award winners:

Childhood Spooklies

Scariest Toddler Experience:

Life without Yo Gabba Gabba!. The world is just too scary without DJ Lance.

Scariest Words a Child Can Hear:
We're on our way to the doctor. And, yes, there'll be shots.

Scariest School Experience:
Throwing up in class. Disrupting class, disgusting your classmates, and pissing off the school custodian does wonders - in a scary way - for your formerly cool reputation.

"In The News" Scary
Scariest Current Events Tale:
9.1% unemployment. Unemployment means no money for rent and food, no benefits like health care, and constant self-doubt. Terrifying stuff.

Scariest US Politician (ensemble award):

Everyone currently in office and/or running for office, all parties, all political persuasions. You're scaring us to death, all y'all!

Scariest World Leader/Politician:

The Duchess of Alba. Not sure how much world-leading she does, I only know that I've had nightmares ever since I saw her wedding pictures. From extreme plastic surgery, good Lord, deliver us.

Scariest Weapon of Mass Destruction:
Reality television. We're doomed.

In the Privacy of Your Own Home Weirdities

Scariest Thing in the Refrigerator:

That two-month old sack of basil, now liquefied and sending off toxic fumes.

Scariest Bathroom Event:

A rat in the toilet, discovered during a middle-of-the-night trip to the loo. (Don't sit down!)

Scariest Television Show:

The last hour of the Today Show with Kathie Lee and Hoda. (see Duchess of Alba nightmares) The frightening thing about Kathie Lee is, well, Kathie Lee. The scary thing about Hoda is that she sticks around.

Scariest Room in the House:
3-way tie: Attic. Basement. My closet. {Shiver}

Out-and-About

Scariest Public Transportation Experience:

Entering a taxi filled with driver-farts, with farts continuing from LaGuardia to Midtown. And you have to travel the entire way with your head out of the window. I smell a remake of "The Fog."

Scariest Restaurant Experience:

Finishing up an excellent meal and discovering that the restaurant only takes cash (not unusual in NYC, BTW) and you have only $2.16 on you.

Scariest Work Experience:

Being constantly interrupted while trying to lunch at desk and play a scratch-off lottery game. Oh, the heartburn!

Scariest Vacation Experience:

A week at a spa run by Dr. Conrad Murray. Ah, those Propofol massages!

Do you have a few nominees of your own? You're welcome to add them to the list. Happy October!

Autumn Crush

2011-10-06T18:23:00.003-04:00

I have not deserted you, dear readers. It's just that the past few weeks have required travel, energy, money, and a sparkling (well, at least, half-fizzy) personality, leaving me little time to collect pithy Shorty PJs thoughts.

Since my 9/11 post I've traveled to Florida for nephew Mike's wedding, spent a week telecommuting from Atlanta, attended the All Saints' Atlanta parish retreat to Kanuga in the mountains of North Carolina, and shuttled back and forth from New York to Atlanta and back.

All that stuff just used up any creative spirit or sheer physical will to tap out a blogpost.

Things always speed up when September rolls around, even after busy summers. I'm not complaining, though. Autumn is my favorite season. I love the cooler temperatures, the gradual color change of the trees, and the smell of dried leaves. I love pumpkins, jack o' lanterns, and roasted pumpkin seeds. Black and orange. Orange, yellow, and brown. Red and green. But try as I might to slow things down in order to savor this time of year, it's just impossible to do.

But I'm not complaining. I've loved everything packed into the past month and look forward to all the other things that will be crammed into the next three months. Hangin' on for dear life! Next week: Estes Park, Colorado. I'll try to do better.

I don't know about you, but I think I'll settle in with a hot cider and a good book.

Happy Autumn!

What is in a name?

2011-09-11T18:35:00.001-04:00

It was hard to listen to the names of those killed in the 9/11 attacks being read at the site of the World Trade Center this morning. The readers were people who'd lost a loved one - wives and husbands, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, grandchildren, friends. Some of the readers were stoic, some in tears. But each name was read with the solemnity and gravitas it deserved.

It was particularly moving to see the reaction to the names engraved around the fountains in the footprints of the towers. The tears, the distress was just heart-breaking. Mothers and fathers traced the letters of the names of children with their fingers. Flowers and little flags were wedged into the engravings. Many people made rubbings of their loved one's name. Each letter of each name so precious. Each name representing a life - the joy, the quirks, the laughter, the day-in/day-out responsibilities, the love - of a single person who is no longer around to hug, toil beside, share a drink, walk the extra mile.

A firefighter in uniform sat in front of me at the 11:00 service at St. John the Divine. I noticed he had a small laminated picture of someone that he held in his hands and took with him when we went up for Communion. That struck me so hard. I didn't personally know anyone who died, but this firefighter did. My prayers were for this man's loved one. After the service I asked him about it. It was a dear friend, he said, and showed me the metal bracelet he wears engraved with his friend's name. The man said he came to the Cathedral every anniversary in honor of his friend. His faithfulness and devotion were inspiring.

I cried my way through the closing hymn, O God Our Help in Ages Past, just as I cried my way through it 10 years ago when we sang it at All Saints' in Atlanta. I do believe that we must move toward the future rather than dwell on the horrors of the past. But when people say get over it and move on, I think of my own tears and emotions. I did not lose a loved one. The names being read are all strangers to me. And yet, tears. I cannot fathom the profound sadness that the families and friends bear, yes, even 10 years later.

Each name is precious. Each name being read aloud. Each name etched in stone. Each name carried on a card tucked inside the dress cap of a firefighter. Each and every name.

What is in a name? An entire life. That's what's in a name.

The Answer to World Peace

2011-09-07T19:07:00.000-04:00

An afternoon cartoon break. So simple, why haven't we thought of it before?

Our department has a big screen TV monitor that usually showcases the new website we're creating. My little office is directly across from the monitor, which has led to my pleas of showing cartoons in the afternoon to liven things up a bit. Well, today, my request was honored.

To the delight of all, the classic Bugs Bunny cartoon "What's Opera, Doc?" rang out into all the nooks, crannies, and cubbies of our 4th floor offices. Lots and lots of laughter ensued for, oh, 7-8 minutes. And then it dawned on me. If everybody would just take a short, afternoon cartoon break (with ensuing laughter), I can't help but think world peace would take over.

Normally, "Kill the wabbit! Kill the wabbit!" set to Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries wouldn't bring world peace to mind. Except when Elmer Fudd is singing it. Impossible to wage war and foment hate when tears of laughter are rolling down your face.

So there. I've solved it. I'll await my Nobel Peace Prize. "Kill the wabbit!"

I Have a Little List

2011-09-04T12:26:00.003-04:00

How much do the little lists we make, day in and day out, reveal about us? A grocery list, a to-do list, a list of what you want to sell at your garage sale, a list of books you want to read, a list of expenses. Think about it. If you kept all the little scraps of paper and Post-It notes, what would those little bits say about what is important - maybe not important, but necessary - to you?

The Morgan Museum & Library has a fascinating exhibition about Lists.

Yesterday, I got to spend a wonderful afternoon at the Morgan with friend Barbara from Atlanta, finally getting to drink in the newly-renovated opulence of J.P. Morgan's library, books, works of art, which were all off limits the last time I was there. Another exhibition explored medieval dress and fashion. (Did you know the two "horns" medieval women piled their hair into and draped with scarves were call "temples"? Me, neither.)

But it was the collection of lists from the Smithsonian that proved the most fun to poke through:

"The exhibition celebrates this most common form of documentation by presenting an array of lists made by a broad range of artists, from Pablo Picasso and Alexander Calder to H. L. Mencken, Eero Saarinen, Elaine de Kooning, and Lee Krasner. With examples such as Picasso's picks for the great artists of his age (Gris, Léger, etc.), H. L. Mencken's autobiographical facts ("I never have a head-ache from drink"), and Robert Smithson's collection of quotations about spirals, the items on view are intriguing, revealing, humorous, and poignant."

OK, so you can see where even the shopping list of a famous person might be interesting, but looking deeper, these lists really reveal a lot about the list-maker. Lists tell us about priorities. Priorities of time, money, attention, passion. Some of the lists are official - a list of teapots (in the form of drawings) for an art exhibition or an accounting of a sales receipt. Some are ordinary and personal - likes, dislikes, things to do today, things to buy at the grocery or hardware store. But all the lists boil down to priorities. What's important. What comes first. What must be done.

Are you a list-maker? I am. And even in this age of making lists and taking notes electronically on a smartphone, I still find a hand-written list the most efficient and easiest to access.

So, what do your "priorities" say about you? Mine obviously say I really need mayonnaise and milk. Priorities, dear. Priorities. Thank goodness, I have a little list.

Postscript: Hurricane Irene

2011-08-28T15:48:00.003-04:00

All is calm, though not bright, this afternoon in Spanish Harlem. It's gloomily overcast, breezy, but dry. There's a lovely quiet, as the Metro North trains aren't up and running under my windows. The streets are still empty of cars and people. My hope is that everyone got so caught up in playing Monopoly or gin rummy with their families - or actually holding meaningful conversations (shock, horror!) - that they've forgotten to emerge from their apartment buildings.

I could tell you that I sat up all night, monitoring Hurricane Irene, watching the wind and rain do its best - or worst - to stir up trouble. I won't, though. Truth is, I slept through the whole thing. I went to bed around 1pm and didn't wake up until 9:30. Must've needed the sleep. So no Irene war-stories for you, dear readers. Sorry.

No broken windows. No lost power/water. I don't even see much debris on the streets.

Perhaps it was a Chicken Little response by New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut, imposing mandatory evacuations and preparing for the worst. However, the devastation that could have taken place if Irene had hit at the right spot and the right strength would have been catastrophic. It's a gamble either way. That said, the local media was way over the top, even if the event had proved apocalyptic. Alas, it was ever thus.

I like to think it proved that New Yorkers can make rational decisions, prepare for potential chaos in an orderly fashion, and follow directions. These are traits not often attributed to New Yorkers, so a collective pat on the back for your solid reason and lack of panic, fellow citizens.

My favorite Mayor Bloomberg moment was when he was asked if preparations were in place to handle looters. He gave the questioner a sort of puzzled, but cock-sure, look and replied, "New Yorkers don't loot. That's not what we do nowadays." Yes, leave that to the likes of Londoners, Los Angelenos, and New Orleansters. It was then I realized that the main qualification of being mayor of New York is that core cock-sureness in New York City and its citizens. Thank you for having such faith in us, Mr. Mayor. (And I hope we would've lived up to your expectations re: looting.)

Now, back to normal. Goodnight Irene, thank you very much.

A Hurricane with a Theme Song

2011-08-27T08:25:00.001-04:00

For all you young'uns who don't understand why everyone keeps painting "Goodnight, Irene" on the plywood going up over windows in the hurricane's path, here's the reason.

As we wait for Irene to show us who's boss, we can gather around the old flashlight, grab a guitar and banjo, and sing a few rounds of "Goodnight, Irene," first recorded by Huddie "Lead Belly" Ledbetter in 1932 but made enormously famous by The Weavers in 1950. My daddy used to sing this all the time.

The song has been recorded by everyone from Frank Sinatra to Tom Waits. But for your listening and learning enjoyment, here are the versions by The Weavers and Lead Belly.

You'll be humming this for days to come. Stay safe and start singin'. Goodnight, Irene.

The Gathering Storm

2011-08-26T18:16:00.000-04:00

I live on the island of Manhattan, New York City. We get heat waves in the summer, snow storms in the winter. But earthquakes and hurricanes? Pretty darn rare. However, we're ticking off both of those weather boxes this week. Tuesday's earthquake? Meh. The approaching hurricane lovingly named Irene? Mamma mia!

It looks like Miss Irene is heading straight for the World's Biggest Apple. There are mandatory evacuations of hospitals and residents in low-lying areas. The entire public transport system shuts down at noon tomorrow. (So if you're leaving, you'd better get going.) Most Broadway shows have been cancelled Saturday and Sunday. (OK, now things are getting critical.) And if you have the urge to do a little gambling in Atlantic City? Fuggitabahtit. Everything's closed.

My fifth-floor apartment is located just inside Hurricane Zone B. I've never had to gear up for a hurricane, though I've had to get ready for a lot of tornadoes over the years. However, I'm not particularly worried. I'm a mother and a Girl Scout. I've been a PTA president and a television producer. "Prepared" is my middle name (except legally, it's Frances). Anyway.

My biggest fear is losing electrical power and/or water. No. Wait. My biggest fear is loss of life and property. Then my biggest fear is losing power and water. And maybe having the windows blow in on me. But I promise to stay away from those.

But Shorty "Prepared" PJs has plenty of water, non-perishable food stuff (bread, peanut butter, fruit, etc.), flashlight/batteries, candles/matches. I have a land-line phone. (I know! But don't you wish you had one now?) I will keep my BlackBerry, netbook, and iPod plugged in and charging until the power goes, and hope against hope that my little techno-toys maintain power throughout any outage.

My Kindle's clip-on light should allow me to read, whether the power's off or on. (No complaints, there.) Our landlord has asked residents to fill our bathtubs in case we need the extra water for flushing toilets. So I'll do that tomorrow evening. In short, whatever the officials advise me to do, I will do. Plus, anything else I think will keep me safe and comfortable.

This sort of event is where social media shines. Following friends via Facebook, Twitter, and blogs will keep everyone up-to-date minute-by-minute on the emergency and its effects. At the very least it will let friends and family know who's safe or who needs help. Should be an interesting weekend up here.

I can't do a thing about the weather, but I can prepare as best I can. And not be stupid as the wind and rain blow across this island.

Shorty PJs Guide to Audience Etiquette

2011-08-26T13:53:00.006-04:00

Follies Performers = +10
Follies Audience = - 492

To Bernadette Peters, Ron Raines, Jan Maxwell, Danny Burstein, Elaine Paige, Jayne Houdyshell, Mary Beth Peil, Terri White, and everyone else in this marvelous cast: Let me apologize for the atrocious behavior of the audience at the Friday, August 19th, 8pm performance.

I estimate at least 40 late seatings in orchestra throughout the first act and a fairly steady stream of folks coming and going on bathroom breaks during the entire show. Was this as distracting to you, Dear Cast, as it was for those of us non-late-bathroom-goers who'd come to bask in the glow of your performances? I have never witnessed such disrespectful behavior by an audience ever in my years of theatre-going.

Who are you people who'd plopped down mucho dinero for prime orchestra seats, only to walk in, out, and around like you were in the middle of watching reality TV in the privacy of your fake-paneled dens with barcaloungers? Well, dearies, it seems you need to brush up on your theatre audience etiquette. So, here are the rules:

Never arrive late. Never. The performance time is right there on the ticket. You have plenty of time to get to the theatre, so implement some planning skills. If you arrive late, sit or stand quietly in the back (no chit-chat with the ushers) until intermission. Sorry. If you're late you forfeit your right to a comfy up-close seat for the first act.
If you have a cough, allergies, or a tendency to clear your throat every 15 seconds, come prepared. Bring a bottle of water. Unwrap all your cough lozenges before the show starts.
Do not guzzle gallons of water, iced tea, or martinis at your pre-theatre pre fixe dinner, unless you have the pee-holding characteristics of a camel. Your need to relieve yourself does not take precedence over the rest of us who get views blocked and concentration broken by your traipsing up and down the aisle during a fabulous number or quiet dialogue. Practice your pelvic muscle control and wait until intermission to hit the loo.
If you have incontinence problems, see #3. And get your seats near the back of the theatre, on far left or far right aisles. You'll still be distracting to the rest of us, but I'll cut you a little slack for health/age reasons. However, you get no sympathy from me if you insist on sitting in the middle of rows A-W.
The overture is part of the show. Shut up and listen. Any time the orchestra strikes up, pre-show or intermission, there should be no talking. Conversations must cease. These fine folks have more talent in their little string-plucking finger than you could ever hope to have. Honor those gifts and show due respect.
For goodness sake, people, dress appropriately. I've written about the appalling lack of respect for the orchestra and performers before. Do not turn up wearing cut-offs, tube tops, wife-beaters, and tee shirts. This is Broadway, folks! Broadway! Dress like you care! Dress like you have a date with Bernadette Peters or Daniel Radcliffe after the show. Do your homes, hotel rooms, or flop houses have no mirrors? Hmph.

It's all about respect for your fellow-audience members and the outrageous, unbelievable talents of the performers. Do not interfere with the delicate dance between audience and cast. Those of us who love, love, love theatre expect to be drawn into story, song, emotion - whatever is being offered to us from the stage. Talking, coughing, walking around, and rattling paper all break the magical thread that ties those of us in the seats to the folks treading the boards.

You do not have Shorty PJ's permission to attend another performance of anything (including your daughter's dance recital or your son's 3rd grade play) until you've memorized the rules. Yes, it's that serious.

Now, everyone who caused such an audience ruckus during Follies on August 19th, 8pm performance, please send a hand-written apology to everyone in the cast and orchestra. It's only right.

Lord, Lord, Lord, That Woman Is Me.

2011-08-21T22:17:00.001-04:00

Friday night, I saw the 40th anniversary production of Stephen Sondheim's Follies at the Marquis Theatre on Broadway. I've loved, loved, loved this show's music since I first really got to know it in the late 70's. When I heard the show was hitting New York, it took me about 14 seconds to decide to plop down my hard earned bucks to see this whacking great container of brilliancy and to bask in the glory of the likes of Bernadette Peters torching up the stage.

One of my great theatrical regrets is to have missed seeing with my very own eyes/hearing with my very own ears the original cast of this 1971 gem. It ranks right up there with having missed Julie Andrews in My Fair Lady and Camelot, Gwen Verdon in Damn Yankees, and the original Broadway cast of Guys & Dolls. (Damn! Sigh.) I can only imagine what it must've been like to hear the wonderful Dorothy Collins belt out "Losing My Mind," Alexis Smith throw out the sarcastic "Could I Leave You?," or Yvonne de Carlo dredge up her past in "I'm Still Here."

But 40 years later I got to see the whole thing unfold with another superior cast of thousands (or so it seemed), a full blown 28-piece orchestra (rare these days), and an eerie, crumbling theatre set on stage. It's a crazy, sad, tragical show, with lots of humor thrown in. Every song is a jewel. There were very few disappointments. The first act drags a little, in spite of all the fun musical numbers. And Elaine Paige, like most singers, oversells "I'm Still Here," though the rest of her Carlotta was endearing.

Two strong questions threaded their way through this particular Follies for me.

One: which Mary from the past is shadowing me? In the musical the retired showgirls are shadowed by their former glamour-girl selves. I found myself caught up in the way the young selves studied their future, older selves and began thinking about what young Mary is thinking of aging Mary. And is that younger me 8? 15? 26?

And two: do you have to be over 60 to finally get this show? Well, having loved it since my late 20's, I can testify that this 60-year-old heard songs like "The Road You Didn't Take," "The Story of Lucy and Jessie," and "Who's That Woman?" with different ears. I think you can understand the regret, the pain, the ego held up to the light in this show at any age, but, boy, the older you are the more you absolutely know what's being put to you in Sondheim's lyrics. Yeah, that woman is me.

OK. I'll shut up now, because this is one show I could talk about for hours. Never fear, I'll spare you that folly.

Who's that woman.

That cheery, weary woman

Who's dressing for yet one more spree?

Each day I see her pass

In my looking-glass--

Lord, Lord, Lord, that woman is me!

A Lady Passes

2011-08-20T16:55:00.001-04:00

My Aunt Frances was a true Southern lady. One who loved the color blue, sending cards, and living out the Golden Rule.

She died last week. At 88, she'd lived a good long life, so her passing came as no surprise. She was my daddy's little sister, and my middle name is compliments of her. She was not famous - or infamous, but she was a kind soul whose concern for others marked a life of neighborly-ness and service. Aunt Frances took her Christian faith seriously and put it to work everyday.

The first vivid memory I have of her was at a clean-up day at the cemetery next to our family farm in Henrietta, Tennessee. I was perhaps 4 or 5 years old. She gave me little jobs to do and seemed pleased that I stuck to her side. Then there was the time that her family visited us in Chattanooga and came to our elementary school fall carnival. Aunt Frances won a large turkey platter at one of the carnival raffles. She'd always point that platter out to me when we'd visit her home in Bordeaux. My growing up years are filled with summer and Christmas memories of her and being on the receiving end of her kindness.

Frances never missed sending birthday and Christmas cards. We used to talk on the phone frequently, but her hearing failed her over the last few years, making calls frustrating for both of us, I suspect. I resorted to sending her cards. She liked cards.

Her favorite color was blue. I think everyone in our family makes some subconscious connection between Aunt Frances and the color blue, even today. She had three wonderful sons - my cousins Jack, Tommy, and Terry - whom she loved to no end. They lovingly looked after her and my Uncle Horace, who died in 1998, throughout years of declining health.

However, another part of Aunt Frances' mythology is the fact that she always wanted a daughter. I'm not speaking out of school on this, because everyone I talked to at her funeral - family members, neighbors, church friends - mentioned it. Cousin Tommy even talked about it in his eulogy (he was supposed to be Beverly, not Tommy, by the way). My sister and I were the recipients of her mother/daughter attention whenever we visited, ranging from home permanents to hand-made clothes. Fortunately, Aunt Frances had marvelous daughters-in-law and three lovely granddaughters, in addition to two fabulous grandsons, so she ended up with lots of girls.

It was important for me to attend her funeral last week in Nashville. As her namesake-niece and daughter of her big brother, I couldn't imagine not being there. The funeral was a celebratory affair. Tommy did an outstandingly hilarious job of a eulogy that captured my aunt's humanity, humility, and love and made us laugh as well as cry. He also played her favorite hymns (good old Gospel-style). I loved seeing my Nashville cousins again and getting reacquainted with their families. At the cemetery, I got to see my grandmother and granddaddy's graves, which I hadn't seen in years. All in all, it was a nice homecoming/home-going.

So I honor, with much love, my blue-loving, daughter-envying, card-sending, Christian-living Southern Aunt Frances. Make way as a lady passes.

Shuckin', shellin', stringin'

2011-07-31T19:13:00.062-04:00

We didn't grow up on the family farm, but believe it or not, we all did our share of shucking corn, shelling peas, and stringing beans during the summer. Daddy would come in from the farmers market or grocery store with sacks or baskets of vegetables that required a little preparation before they were ready to cook or store in our huge chest freezer.

I was remembering those times as I was shucking a few lovely ears of sweet corn that I got at the market on Friday. Back when the corn came right off the farmer's truck, it wasn't unusual to find a little worm in the corn silks, and as I kid I saw this as a little pay-off excitement to an otherwise boning task. No worms on my New York corn, but it is delicious, worm or no worm.

Shelling field peas seemed to be Mother's domain, with the occasional help from our little hands. It was always gratifying ripping open the pods and hearing the peas - ping-ping-ping - hit the large metal bowl. And once in a while, you'd pop a raw pea or two into you mouth. Sneaky. Daddy seemed to rule the green bean stringing - usually while in front of the TV, though Mother and the rest of us snapped off the ends and pulled the long strings many a time.

Does anybody sit around with the family shuckin', shellin', or stringin' these days? No? Pity.

Summer Spice

2011-07-31T18:37:00.002-04:00

Just because they are so pretty in the sunlight. Homegrown peppers (thanks, Greg!) drying on the window sill. The colors make me smile. Can't wait to enjoy them in my food.

Early Morning at the Met with McQueen

2011-07-29T11:22:00.001-04:00

I have the day off, so I thought I'd take advantage of the members-only early admission to the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Alexander McQueen exhibit. I've tried to get in twice this summer, but it's always been jam-packed. The thought of a calmer, less crowded view of the designer's work appealed to me. Alas, this member-only entrance had us packed in like sardines. Next time, I'll sleep in and see the premier exhibitions with the riff-raff.

Crowds notwithstanding, the displays were incredible. Here are a few pictures taken (without flash) before the guard said "no photos" (as flashes were going off all around me).

It Could Be Worse

2011-07-28T20:27:00.001-04:00

Yeah, things look pretty bleak right now.

Every single person entrusted to represent us in City Halls, state legislatures, and in Washington DC is hopped up on clueless idiot pills. News organizations (and who know who else) are hacking the phones of murder victims and soldiers. Outrageous indignities must be suffered just to pay a whole lot of money to fly from Point A to Point B. Unemployment is high, pensions are disappearing, and mind-numbing reality TV has us in its grip.

I'll grant you, the second decade of the 2000's is off to a rousing start. But it could be worse.

Whenever I think life is going to hell in a handbasket, I pull out Barbara Tuchman's A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century. No, really, I do.

I first read this book back in 1979. Last century, doncha' know. For those of you who lived through it, cast your memory back to that dreary year. Ayatollah Khomeini and the Iran hostage crisis. Three Mile Island. Assassinations and bombings. Crowd stampede at The Who concert in Cincinnati. The dollar goes down, down, down on the world market. USSR invades Afghanistan. The President of the United States fights off a killer rabbit. Disco. And the usual weather calamities of storms, tsunamis, tornadoes, and snow lasting 30 minutes in the Sahara Desert. All in all, a perfectly horrible, dispiriting year.

But after reading Tuchman's book about the 14th century? Shoot, 1979 seemed like the best of times.

The Black Plague. Hundred Years' War. Three popes (and, goodness knows, one is enough trouble). Pillaging mercenaries. The Little Ice Age. The Great Famine. The Peasants Revolt. No air conditioning, microwave ovens, or computers. And, one more reminder, the Black Plague. Times were dire, and there was no escape. Most people couldn't read, so entertaining oneself with a good novel was out of the question. Couldn't lose yourself in a movie or PBS television series. And just think of the smell!

So if you're feeling low about the Casey Anthony trial or raising the debt ceiling, thank your lucky stars that you don't have to fight off the Black Plague, three popes, a Little Ice Age, and a famine without being able to check email and while smelling absolutely revolting. Or, that you don't live in 1979.

See? Chin up, there, friend. Things could be so much worse.

Flavor of the Season

2011-07-23T21:05:00.000-04:00

Throughout all those long, lazy summer days of childhood - thousands of years ago, nothing brought such delight as an ice cold Popsicle. We'd wait and wait and wait for the sound of the tinkly little bell heralding a truckful of every flavor Popsicle ever dreamed up, plus Fudgesicles and Creamsicles and the occasional Push-up or NuttyBuddy.

Decisions, decisions. Cherry? Grape? Blueberry (just blue, nothing very berry about it)? Or the very exotic . . . banana?

If I were feeling silly, I'd choose the blue one, just because it turned my teeth, tongue, and lips blue, and that's funny to a 5-year-old. If I were feeling a little outrageous, I'd choose banana - it was just so odd-tasting, in a good way, but not like a real banana. Once in a while I'd go all conservative and choose grape. But mostly, I'd choose cherry, my personal favorite.

But never orange. Orange was so NOT special. It was just OK, and if we'd waited for the truck all that time, the choice needed to be spectacular, not just OK.

So what's your favorite Popsicle flavor? Is there an orange-lover out there? Hm? Or are we all banana and cherry fans?

And do speak up if you're a NuttyBuddy.

(In case you didn't catch it, the picture's not vintage Popsicle. It's the ad Peggy Olsen came up with for a campaign on Mad Men.)

My Premier Premiere

2011-07-11T22:22:00.002-04:00

Attending a movie premiere was high on my New York Bucket List. But nothing had moved me enough to stand around for hours in a crush of people to catch a glimpse of a few movie stars until news of the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2 floated my way.

I knew it would be chaos. (It was.) I knew it would be hot and humid. (Yes, high 90s with enough humidity to water plants.) I knew I wouldn't be able to get very close to the red carpet crowd. (But I got close enough to count, I guess.)

Here's proof I was there. In the hot afternoon sun. Lincoln Center's Avery Fisher Hall. Sorry most of the shots are so fuzzy, but I was just too far away and my little camera couldn't handle it. Still, it's a big check for that Bucket List item.

Matthew Lewis (Neville Longbottom). Who knew he'd turn out so dishy?

Alan Rickman (Snape).

Emma Watson from afar (gold dress on podium).

Daniel Radcliffe, all in black. I had a MUCH better view of him when I went to see "How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying" a few weeks ago.

Summer Saturday in New York City

2011-07-09T19:04:00.002-04:00

New York Public Library Lion "Patience" guards the 5th Avenue establishment.

The lovely Flatiron Building across from Madison Square Park. This is my second-favorite NYC building (Chrysler Building will always be No. 1 with me).

Madison Square Park always has interesting art installations. This one is an illusion. When you come upon it, it's just a pure white sculpture. But moving around to the front, the face appears to have a sort of photographic effect. It's very odd.

Union Square Park from the 4th floor of Filene's Basement across the street. (And is "basement" and "4th floor" an oxymoron?)

My favorite, favorite NYC food truck: YOGO yogurt. It has been following me around the city for two weeks: first stationed across from The Met, then across from my office twice this week, and now Union Square. I recommend the tart flavor, not the vanilla. Add almonds and fruit. And yum!

Don't you just love New York in July?

How to Succeed at Lord & Taylor

2011-07-09T18:31:00.000-04:00

Popped down 5th Avenue to see Lord and Taylor's retro window displays celebrating Broadway's How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Here are two of them. My fav was the Coffee Break window, complete with coffee vending machine and NYC's iconic Greek key take-out coffee cups.

By the way, I'm a little worried that when I see "Harry Potter and Deathly Hallows, Pt. 2", I'll be watching Harry through a J. Pierpont Finch lens. Hmmm. J. Pierpont Potter, perhaps?

In the Course of Human Events

2011-07-04T01:07:00.001-04:00

What are you celebrating today, on this the 4th day of July, 2011?

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? (Worth a firework or two, indeed.) Dissolving political bands? (I'm interpreting "bands" to refer to "ties," not a drum and fife corps or some anarchic 60's folk-rock group.) Holding truths to be self-evident? (Plain as the nose on your face, dummy.)

It's been a Shorty PJs tradition to ask - nay, beg - folks to spend a couple of their valuable Independence Day minutes reading The Declaration of Independence. Honestly, it's easy as all git-out to read. 'Way easier than the contract from your mobile phone service provider. (That little Tommy Jefferson sure had a way with words.) In fact, read the thing aloud. Amidst the hamburger-grilling and sparkler-lighting, gather the family and friends around for a Declaration-reading. You won't be disappointed.

It starts off with a bang: "When in the course of human events . . ." I love that phrase, the course of human events. He could have written something blah, like "Once in a while," or "Sometimes," or something angry, like "When a group of folks get pissed off enough . . ." But no. An all-encompassing "course of human events."

Then it moves on to those famous lines about all men being created equal (yeah, I know, it was just talking about some men, but it was a real good start) and the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Not happiness. But the pursuit of it. Brilliant. Spend a minute thinking about what that means. Then. And now.

There's a section that says, in summary, we've tried to play by the rules, but the rules are unjust. We've been real nice about it (mostly) up to now. We've petitioned through the proper channels, but (and I am paraphrasing here, of course.) this crazy-ass king and his minions will have none of it. Then the document lists all the grievances. The grandfather of bullet-pointing. Again, brilliant.

And the thing ends with (again, paraphrasing) "We're outta here!" and "We know we are facing deep sh*t by signing this thing, but it is worth it to us, our families, and this new country." The 56 signers pledged to each other their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor. And expected Divine Providence to see 'em through.

On this 4th of July, 2011, I say thank you, Signers, and wives and families of Signers, for risking everything to declare and fight for independence.

And I do believe all of that is worth parades, fireworks, hot dogs, and beer. Happy 4th to all!

I'm old as hell, and I'm not gonna take it anymore!

2011-06-26T18:53:00.000-04:00

I've always been a bit of firecracker, never shy about telling folks what I think and causing justifiable ruckuses where warranted. However, when it comes to the likes of hairstylists, waiters, doctors, and housecleaners, I've taken what service they've dished out to me over the years - no matter how lousy - with nary a peep. Funny haircuts, snippy restaurant service, medical double-speak, and shoddy cleaning left me boiling on the inside, sweet and demure on the outside.

But the times they are a-changing.

I'm tired of takin' it, and especially paying good money for takin' it. Over the last couple of years, I've walked out mid-haircut (before too much damage was done), asked for and gotten better restaurant service (yes, I want my water glass filled and butter with the bread; no, I don't want to sit next to the restroom or kitchen), and grilled my doctors when my questions aren't being answered in a straight-forward way.

Just last week I walked out ten minutes into a dental cleaning. I've never walked out mid-dental service, but I raised at least three objections to the dental hygienist as she continually sprayed water up my nose, gouged my gums, and ignored my concerns, and it didn't take me long to realize this cleaning could turn out badly. The whole experience was weird, as if the dental hygienist was making me pay for whatever bad things were going on in her life. As someone who's had lots and lots of cleanings over the years, it didn't take me long to realize this wasn't going to end well. I stopped the cleaning and walked out.

I don't know if good service and client care are sliding to a bottomless pit these days, or if I'm just turning into a crotchety old broad. But I find I have less and less patience with not getting what I pay for or not being treated in a respectful, professional manner by service providers.

Perhaps one of the benefits of getting older is a new-found spirit of demanding the services expected and paid for. And if that's the case, I'm ready to barrel into my golden years!

How To Succeed In Business And Have Fun Doing It

2011-06-18T21:19:00.008-04:00

Aspiring entrepreneurs can learn a thing or two from J. Pierrpont Finch. By following the rules put forth in a little book called How To Succeed In Business, Finch quickly rises from the mailroom to Chairman of the Board of World Wide Wickets. He never lies (he lets others speculate about one thing or another, but he doesn't actually lie); he thinks on his feet; he gives others their due (which may or may not work out for the other person): he's focused on a goal. The only thing in the little book he doesn't follow is the falling in love part. And we're happy about that.

Yes, I just saw Broadway's revival of the Frank Loesser musical "How to Succeed In Business Without Really Trying." I'm here to say it was simply wonderful. I was looking for something light-hearted, sing-alongable, colorful, and that's exactly what I found at the Hirshfeld Theatre this afternoon. It's the 50th anniversary of the show, the third rendition (Robert Morse originated the role in 1961; and remember Matthew Broderick's Finch in the 1995 revival?), and stars Daniel Radcliffe and John Larroquette. And that's Anderson Cooper's voice reading excerpts from "the book."

Yes, Daniel Radcliffe can sing and dance and talk like an American. No mention of Voldemort in the entire production. And John Larroquette's comedic skills are perfect for J.B. Biggley. The whole production - songs, sets, cultural references, costumes - are a yummy throwback to the early 1960s. So the secretaries wear delicious little dresses, suits, hats, and gloves - very Mad Men, but much more colorful. The set is a corporate vari-colored honeycomb. And I think I was the only person in the audience that got the reference to Metrecal. The only current cultural reference I caught was Finch declaring his love for Rosemary by jumping up and down on the couch Tom Cruise-style.

And what an energetic show! Almost every number is full-out all-singing, all-dancing, all-working up a sweat. Man, am I tired! Here's a little sneak preview:

At the curtain call the cast did a little reprise of "Brotherhood of Man," with the audience singing along. Just another something I can add to my resume, with singing on Broadway with Liza Minelli (Spamalot) and my Broadway stage debut at Spring Awakening. So now I'm feeling all Broadway-comfy-cozy. Yum.

Oh, aren't you proud to be
In that fraternity?
The great big Brotherhood of Man!

Evening Stroll

2011-06-18T12:42:00.002-04:00

Through Central Park. With 15,000 other folks.

Thursday evening, I participated in the JP Morgan Corporate Challenge with Team 815 from the Episcopal Church Center. While I'd walked in similar events in Atlanta, I'd never joined my colleagues in NYC for this annual race. The event is so popular in New York that it has to be held on two consecutive days to accommodate the 30,000 registrants.

We struck out from our offices at 815 Second Avenue at 5:30 and headed toward the subway and on to the staging area in Central Park, inside 72nd Street entrance. Our group was assigned the Orange area, where a table and sign awaited our team. Our "security" volunteers took possession of our worldly goods and spread the table with water, fruit, and cookies. (Thank you for watching our stuff, Eric, Sharon, and Esther!)

For the race, I was assigned to the White Group - not based on skin color, but based on ability. I'm not a runner, so all walkers were White. Each participant area was jammed, but folks were well-behaved as we awaited the 7pm start time. The fastest groups were led out first, so we slow-poke walkers were the last to go. Our numbered bibs had a couple of tracking strips taped to the back, and as we crossed the start and finish lines, our times were accurately recorded.

I stayed well to the left to allow runners to pass. But anyone who knows me knows that I'm a fast walker, and I was often outpacing folks with non-white bibs. It was a lovely, breezy evening, and the 3.5-mile loop around the park was quite enjoyable. A couple of people commented on my shirt (it had the Episcopal Church logo) as they passed me, so I'm assuming they were good Episcopalians.

I crossed the finish line with a time of 59:44, not great, but respectable for an old broad.

All in all, a lovely evening stroll.

Six Decades of Adorable

2011-06-11T10:20:00.001-04:00

Reporting back from a great week in Orlando with the girlfriends. It was hard to concentrate on just the five of us, what with Weiner-gate (really? Weiner-gate?) and wall-to-wall Casey Anthony coverage, but we did manage to talk about everyone we ever knew (yeah, we probably talked about you), run rampant through Universal/Orlando (and all the shops), imbibe in a suitable amount of adult beverages, and sun ourselves around the pool most of the day.

We staked out a prime pool spot - far enough away from frolicking children, but close enough to the pool for a quick dip - and circled the lounge chairs. Time goes quickly when you're catching up on families, trips, health issues, and remember-whens. Add time in the whirlpool, sauna, and steam room, and you've got yourself a winning vacation experience.

Believe it or not, we still have enough stamina to work our way through 9-10 hours' worth of Islands of Adventure and Universal theme parks. We can highly recommend the Harry Potter ride, the Monster Makeup Demo, and the Lucy (as in Lucille Ball) museum. Standing in long lines weren't a waste of time for us, because we just kept up our catching-up talk.

One night we hit the Sleuth Mystery Dinner Show and had a ball. The show was funny, our table-mates were fun, and the wine kept flowing. None of us got the solution right, but we laughed ourselves silly and enjoyed the meal and camaraderie.

It's a real luxury to have five full days to get all the news of each other's lives. We do fall into our old friendship rhythms, and for a brief time we are in our elementary or high school environment. Yeah, there are pros and cons to that, but mostly it's just natural.

We've all completed six decades, except for two who cross that line next month, and we loved celebrating that achievement together. Something tells me that we'll be celebrating eight and nine decades together, God willing.

And we'll still be adorable!

The Gathering of the Girls

2011-06-04T21:53:00.003-04:00

Yep. It's that time of year again. What used to be called Girlfriends Weekend has now been expanded to Girlfriends Week, as we head down to a fun/sun-filled week in Orlando. I don't really remember how it got started, but sometime in the mid-90's, five friends decided we didn't see each other enough - all those child-rearing, career-slogging years seemed to get in the way - and vowed to get together once a year.

Four of us have been together since we were in first grade at Barger Elementary School in Chattanooga, Tennessee. We survived six years there and three at Brainerd Jr. High before heading across the river to Chattanooga "City" High, where we met girlfriend #5.

Years of slumber parties, Twist contests, transistor radios and 45's, pimples, bad hair days-weeks-years, Bobbie Brooks sweaters, Weejuns, pep rallies, and English compositions mean that not a one of us can bullshit the others. We all know too much. We knew each other when.

Do you know how freeing that is? And more comfortable than sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt.

One thing's for sure. We can't lie about our ages. We're all 1951 babies, so we have a lot of decades to celebrate this year. The members of this little quintet are stereotypically named (according to the Most Popular Girl Names of 1951): Linda (#1), Mary (#2), Susan (#6), and two - count 'em, two! - Sharons (#13). No mistaking which era we're from, no siree.

We will catch up with each other - grandchildren, childrens' milestones, one new marriage, vacations, mission trips, work, aches and ailments - and, of course, we'll talk about other folks (good Christian gossip, of course). We'll eat and drink well, sun ourselves, swim, laugh, and do a lot of remembering-when. And after five full days, we won't have scratched the surface of stuff to talk about. That's just what happens when friends get together.

I'll try to report live from Orlando, but I may be too busy talking. Or eating. Or drinking. But probably talking.

The Cleanest Person in the World

2011-05-29T10:55:00.001-04:00

That'd be me. After several hours at the Russian & Turkish Baths. You're thinking I'm terribly wicked, aren't you? Hanging out at bath houses in New York? Well, I picked up a sweet deal from Lifebooker offering a day pass for $12 for the 1892 East Village establishment. I added a mud scrub to make the deal even more interesting. What the heck? I'll try anything once.

Now, if you're looking for a modern day spa with mood lighting, New Age music softly wafting through the place, and pertly smocked therapists offering cold lemon water, forget it. This place is loud (lots of tile, lots of people) Old World masculine. No frills. The women's locker room is cramped. The towels (complimentary) are mud brown, which is practical for a place offering mud scrubs.

Being the pessimistic-optimist that I am, I never expect too much from stuff like this, which has gotten me through a lot of life experiences. That outlook worked in my favor for the banya experience. I knew I was going on a coed day (bathing suits required). I figured it would be crowded on a Saturday (right again). I suspected it wouldn't be a day at a toney spa. But what I was after was lots of time in a variety of saunas, steam rooms, and a cold plunge pool (brrrrrrrr), and the Russian & Turkish Baths delivered. I loved going from room to room to pool to room, alternately sweating and freezing. Such happy pores!

But the really unique experience was the mud scrub. This is not for the shy. The treatment room was tiny, dark, and only a curtain and thin metal walls separated me from the hub-bub of the cold pool area. A tiny woman named Rosa, who in her thick Russian accent told me she'd worked there for twenty years, slathered me with mud (supposedly from the Dead Sea, but probably from the Hudson River), covered me lightly with towels, and left me to absorb the brown stuff.

She returned about twenty minutes later to hose me down with warm water. After most of the mud was rinsed off, she used a loofah glove to scrub me with clean-smelling soap. Now, I haven't had someone gave me a bath since I was 2, so this was a real luxury, even amidst the noise and turn-of-the-century/Soviet-era ambiance. After the soap, a scrub-down with sea salt. Another warm water rinse. Oh, and she washed my hair. I've never had someone spend a good five minutes washing my hair. Heaven! Atmosphere be damned.

So, yes, the cleanest person on earth right now is little old me.

What (and how) are you reading?

2011-05-26T12:07:00.008-04:00

I've always been a one-book-at-a-time reader. Even though I'm a great multitasker on many levels, juggling several ongoing sagas in my brain at one time only confused me. Until now. What has changed is how I'm accessing my books. Note the word "accessing" instead of "reading."

Currently I have three books rattling around in my head:

Hard copy (and yes, hard cover) next to my bed: The Seance by John Harwood. I cannot sleep at night without reading a real, hold-in-your-hands book before turning out the light. I love real books. I love the smell of them. I love the smell of bookstores, especially ones that aren't overpowered by the smell of coffee from the ubiquitous Starbucks placed center store. I like the feel of a book in my hands. I like the satisfaction of placing a book, enjoyed and completed, in my bookshelves. I like turning the pages and sticking a bookmark in to hold my place as my eyelids start to droop. It will be a sad old world if lovely hard cover volumes disappear.

Audiobook via iPod (thanks, New York Public Library for the free downloads): The Map that Changed the World by Simon Winchester, read by Simon Winchester. Audiobooks are the books of choice for my commute to and from work. My hands are free to hang on during a subway ride and keep the story going as I walk from the station to my destination. A big upside to audiobooks is that many public libraries allow free mp3 downloads.

What makes or breaks an audiobook is the narrator/reader. Author Simon Winchester, for example, is a wonderful narrator. An easy style, not stilted. And, of course, he knows the book, since he wrote it. Last year I listened to The Help, rather than reading it. The audiobook used three different readers for the three main characters, which made keeping the characters straight pretty easy. But a lousy narrator isn't even worth download time. That's the real caution of an audiobook.

Kindle (my new love): The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. I know, I know. I completely rejected the idea of electronic readers when they first came out. My sensibilities were all a-snit. However, the more I travel, and the more stuff I have to cram into a bag that fits into the overhead compartment - well, the thing that usually has to be left at home on the bed is my book. And I can't sleep without reading before bedtime. And, no, a magazine won't do. Watching folks whip out the slim little Kindle reader in an airport, on the plane, in the subway, at a restaurant began to make me downright envious. Just think! I could carry lots and lots of books with me in this lightweight little package. I could download new books instantly! A word got you stumped? Just click, and it's defined. I had to have one of these little babies.

Thankfully, Daughter and Son-in-Law gave me a Kindle for my birthday. What a joyous thing it is! I love that it does one thing very, very well. It doesn't try to be a laptop or smartphone or tablet. Nope. It perfectly delivers the world of print to a format I can easily slip into my purse, hold in one hand, and instantly turn pages. Seamless reading. In the bright sun. Easy on the eyes. Perfect, I tell you. And while it won't replace my hard copy bedtime reading at home, it is now my on-the-go reading. I'm on the go a lot, by the way.

These new wonderments have opened a world of three-books-at-a-whack to me. Because the formats are different, they fall into different little slots in my brain, I guess, whereas juggling three hard-copy books mixed me up. My once overwhelming stack of TBR (To Be Read) hard copies is now kind of puny. But I have three books awaiting "Play" on my iPod and 12 on Kindle. Endless possibilities, many for free or for $0.99.

So what - and how - are you reading? And what on earth would Herr Gutenberg make of all this?

Left Behind

2011-05-22T18:28:00.003-04:00

About every ten years or so, some silly fool makes enough ruckus to get himself noticed by declaring a specific date and time for the end of the world. Yeah, we were due, so a Mr. Harold Camping threw up some billboards and made enough noise to attract media attention for his predicted date for The Rapture: May 21, 2011. Mr. Camping is a Christian broadcaster who gives a bad name to both groups, which in this day and time is pretty hard to do.

Now, I think that The Rapture and The End of the World are technically - er, biblically - two different things, but let's give Mr. Camping the benefit of a doubt on this. And he did manage to push Mississippi floods, DSK/IMF/Sofitel NYC, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Osama Bin Laden out of the prime news spot for the past week.

The thing is, I never pay much attention to these predictions. First, Shorty PJs is secure in the knowledge of what will happen when she metaphorically crosses the River Jordan. Second, the entire thing is out of my control. I might give it a little more thought if, say, I were the President or Mark Zuckerberg, two guys who probably do have the power to bring about the End of Days. Alas, all Shorty will be able to do is sit back and enjoy the show.

Of course we have one more hump to get over next year. That pesky 2012 Mayan calendar thing. But for now, we can relax. My advice: Do be good. Don't be stupid. Those two rules will get you through everyday life and everyday Apocalypse.

Yours until the world ends,

Shorty PJs

The Gift of a Rainy Sunday

2011-05-15T10:18:00.000-04:00

I woke up this morning to a steady, soaking rain hitting the fire escape outside my bedroom window. Raising the blinds, I took in the sight of the leaves on a row of very green trees dancing up and down to the beat of the downpour and gave up a silent "Thank you, Lord!"

A rainy Sunday cuts your options. Or. Increases your options. Depends on your outlook. A rainy Sunday gives you permission to slow down, stay inside. Read. Nap. Fold clothes. Call a friend. A rainy Sunday gives you permission to throw on a slicker and rubber boots and take a walk. Visit a museum. Take in a play. Get a new perspective on the street, a park, a river, in the pouring rain.

I love rain. Yes, it can be a pain on a Monday morning getting to work, or if you're going to a picnic or an outdoor wedding. But rain clears the air. It washes away the dust from the trees, the sidewalks, the window ledges. Green grass get greener. Black pavement gets blacker. Yellow/orange taxis get shiny-brighter orangier. I find a delightful peace in that.

So I give thanks for this rainy Sunday. It's a gift of time. A gift of color. A gift of renewal.

Eschew Fascinators

2011-05-07T12:03:00.002-04:00

A lot has happened in the last few days, and there are a plethora of events and behaviors which might cause me to climb upon my moral high horse: Donald Trump, Charlie Sheen, Osama bin Laden, out-of-control tornadoes, the NFL draft. But no. None of those are worth pushing out of my easy chair and mounting the steed o' morality.

One thing alone has so offended me that I can no longer remain silent, and that's wearing silly hats or the headgear known as the "fascinator" to formal events, like, say, royal weddings.

Otherwise sane, fashionable women seem to go to extraordinary lengths to call attention to themselves in the most unflattering ways. The odd confections atop Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie have received much-deserved ridicule, so no need to pursue that subject. But they weren't the only ones who chose weird over lovely. The Abbey was chock-a-block with foolish chapeaux.

Now, I'm perfectly joyful at the outrageousness of the hats at Ascot or a good drag show or even a child's birthday party. And Carrie Bradshow is quirkily adorable when she sticks some fluffy confection on the top of her head in an episode of Sex And The City. But, really ladies - weddings? Are there no mirrors around your house? Not one good friend who'll tell you the truth: "Well, that's just ridiculous. What are you really going to wear?" Poor darlings.

I find the fascinator a particularly strange bit of pooh to affix to one's head. It's always worn at ludicrous angles and looks like something created by five-year-old girls at a craft table with plenty of feathers, glitter, markers, and pipe-cleaners on hand. Maybe one reason I don't like Donald Trump is that hair-shaped fascinator he wears.

So I'm calling on women, especially our British sisters, to eschew (because you know how I love the word "eschew") silly hats and fascinators in favor of simple elegance. Save it for Ascot. Or Donald Trump. Or your appearance in Sex And The City III.

Climbing off high horse. Settling back into easy chair. Yes, I feel better with that off my chest. Or head.

Sand Castle Building 101: The Drip Castle

2011-04-23T19:38:00.002-04:00

During our stay at Panama City Beach, Son-in-Law and I managed to create two sand castles. The first was sort of a test model, to work out our technique. The second was much more elaborate, complete with moat, outer wall, and multiple turrets. We were using the drip castle technique, rather than the artsy sand sculpture method. Our royal sand abodes came out more Disney-esque instead of Windsor-esque.

Now, I've always considered the drip method sort of ghetto. It doesn't take much skill - just a steady hand, a little patience, and the ability to endure sand and salt water in - ahem - uncomfortable places. It's perfect for those of us who are sculpturally-challenged.

If you're heading to the beach any time soon and want to leave (however briefly) your architectural mark near the surf, here's a Drip Castles For Dummies (though you are certainly no dummy):

Choose your property. Take stock of current tides. It's no good staking out something in the deep soft sand or too close to the water. There's a sweet spot near the water where the sand is nice and damp, but not too drippy. You'll know it when you see it.
Round? Square? Other? Decide the basic shape of your castle. Our first one was round; the second, square. Hexagon works, too.
Scoop out your moat. A moat helps as waves encroach on your turf (is sand turf?) and protects your creation until high tide.
Do you want a battlement wall around your castle? If so, start building up a wall, packing the sand as you build (you'll cover it with drips later). Be sure to leave a nice opening on one side so that you can work on the main building.
Start building up your castle with packed sand. We use a bucket to load in the sand. Give it the shape you want.
Now for the drip part. If you're close enough to the water, you only have to dig down a little way to hit the water you can use to help with the dripping. If not, fill a bucket about 3/4 full with water, then add sand. Yeah, you'll have to make lots of water-totin' trips.
Grab a handful of wet sand from your bucket and let it drip over the packed sand. Drip it over the whole thing. Then start creating towers and turrets. The sand has to be really wet to build up delicate spires. It's easy-peasy, once you get the hang of it.
If you've built a wall around your castle, cover it with drips, too. And add shells or seaweed to decorate.

That's all there is to it. People were really impressed with the results, and we were pleased with our morning's work. And remember, you'll always knock one tower down as you create another, and/or destroy a wing when you step wrong or spill a bucket of water. But that's the fun. Creating. Re-creating.

A sand castle is a magical thing, indeed.

Just a day at the beach

2011-04-20T22:09:00.000-04:00

It's been years since I've had a week at the beach. Work, family obligations (all good), and non-beach destinations have gotten me out of town over the years, but five full days at the beach hasn't happened since Kate was little. But this week I'm tagging along with daughter, son-in-law, and GrandBoy to Panama City Beach on Florida's panhandle.

The weather's gorgeous. The water's fine (a little cold at first, but it doesn't take long to get used to it). Lovely sea breezes. White sand. No BP oil residue on the beach or in the water. We're staying in a friend's beachfront condo, so we have a beautiful view of the sand, surf, and pools. In short: bliss.

When I was growing up, we used to travel down here and stay at Russell's Court, a quintessential 1950's motor court (an old fashioned word for motel). It was perfect for families: a couple of big rooms, lots of beds and fold-out couches, and a kitchen of course, because folks cooked on vacation. It was right on the beach and had a small pool. I suspect Russell's Court is no more; a condo probably sits on the land that once welcomed my crazy family to the beach.

Another Panama City Beach attraction missing in action is the Miracle Strip, a big amusement part across from the beach. I have many fond MS memories from family vacations, a summer youth trip, and a visit Kate and I made down here when she was 5 or 6 years old. There's a tiny replica of the grander version at Pier Park. A merry-go-round, balloon ride, and butterfly house have kept GrandBoy happy in the late afternoon. A tilt-a-whirl and scrambler have amused the adults.

Days are spent sitting in the sand, listening to the surf, building sand castles, reading a book via Kindle, napping, swimming - well, you get the picture. Not a bad way to spend the last few days of my sixth decade and my first couple of days as a 60-year-old.

Having a great time. Wish you were here?

Wonders of the Week

2011-04-15T20:49:00.001-04:00

It's Friday. With the week in my rear-view mirror and a cocktail in hand, I'm pondering all the wonders of the past seven days. Here are my top three, in no particular order:

I wonder when I'll hit the 20-article monthly limit on the New York Times website. I appreciate that newspapers need to find new sources of revenue in this digital age, but I think the NYT price points are too high. I'd be willing to fork over, say, $5.99/month, but not $14-$34/month. Yikes! I also wonder if a 20-article limit is enough to feed my NYT addiction.

I wonder why public buildings with double doors often keep one locked. Shouldn't all doors be unlocked and accessible during business, church, and banking hours? This is not only a wonder, but a frustration as well, since I invariably try to pull or push open the one that's locked. Well, 50-50 chance on that, right?

I wonder if it's the end of the daytime soap opera as we know it. I haven't watched them in years since I'm not home during the day, but with the demise of All My Children and One Life To Live, I suspect the remaining few are not long for this world. It's all talk shows and reality TV now. You'll have to tune in to telenovelas on Univision if you want good stories from here on out.

If you figure those out, do let me know. Of course, I have a week at the beach ahead of me to sort things out. Unless something else wonder-ful comes along.

Not the New 30

2011-04-14T19:16:00.000-04:00

Someone on the Today Show commented that "60 is the new 30." Oh, really? Tell that to my left shoulder, my right elbow, and both of my knees. Unless something magical happens at 12:00:00 next Thursday morning, I suspect that 60 is - at best - the new 45.

While I do think 40-50-60 looks a lot younger today than when my grandparents were hitting those milestones, at some point you just have to acknowledge the ravages of time on your joints, hair, face, and upper arms. And some ravages happen earlier than others. Factor in whether or not you've inherited good genes, lived a healthy lifestyle, and are blessed with plain dumb luck, and, well, there you have what things will be like for your slide down the big hill of life.

Would I want to be 30 again? Mmm, I don't think so. As fabulous as I was way back then, I've always felt that life gets a little better every day - more fun, additional insights, new relationships. So, yeah, it's a trade-off: young, skinny, supple joints vs. new ways to laugh, experience, and love. Not that I have a choice, but I'll cast my lot with choice #2.

So keep your Botox, collagen, and butt lifts. Sixty is not the new 30. But it is the new 60. Creaky joints and saggy skin notwithstanding, I'm hanging on for all the adventures, laughs, stories, and love ahead.

And I'll let you know if the Birthday Fairy turns me into a 30-year-old next week.

Footprints on the sands of cement

2011-04-09T20:43:00.004-04:00

My conference hotel in California shared the block with Grauman's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. Yesterday afternoon I managed to elbow my way through a herd of distressingly dressed tourists to capture a few images of the footprints of the famous.

Most are just footprints, hand prints, autographs, and date, but a few show the personality of the star - like Jimmy Durante's nose or a few musical notes written out by Bing Crosby.

For my little pictorial diary, I avoided the nouveau stars and stuck with the ones who have some longevity of reputation. Funny thing, though. I think most of the folks skipping over the stones didn't recognize the majority of names etched into the cement squares. (They're obviously not fans of Turner Classic Movies.)

Now, there seems to be some dispute on exactly how the custom of playing in cement got started. Was it Norma Talmadge? A forecourt workman? Sid Grauman himself? Well, whatever ignited the tradition, it's been popular thing to do over the past 80+ years. And quite the honor. Helen Mirren is the latest to leave her mani-pedi in front of the pagoda-esque establishment (March 2011).

I assume the shoes are ruined after leaving their impressions at Grauman's. What do you think?

The Milestone Year

2011-03-27T11:42:00.001-04:00

Everyone born in a year ending in 1 has a milestone birthday this year. Heading into April - my milestone month - I'm trying not to dwell on the great cosmic meaning, if there is one, of hitting 60.

Past milestone birthdays have never really bothered me. I turned 30 in England, and it was great fun. I had a fun 40th party and never thought twice about hitting the big 4-0. My 50th was relatively uneventful, but I didn't feel impacted at all by the march of time; it was just another day. But I have to admit that facing my 60th is starting to get under my skin a little.

Wrapping up six decades is a big deal. Still, I contend that being a 1951 early Baby Boom child landed me in exactly the right time and place for taking advantage of all that the second half of the 20th century and beyond has had to offer. I don't remember a time before television; it was brand new when I came along, so we grew together. Sociologists and marketers realized the potential of all these new babies around the time I burst on the scene, so we early 50's babies became guinea pigs and targets for toys, toothpastes, education theories, medical breakthroughs, and political/economic movements.

We rode - and are still riding - the crest of the wave. We've been just the right age for Howdy Doody, Captain Kangaroo, Slinky, Etch-a-Sketch, Play-Doh, Barbie (though I never had one, thank you very much), Cheerios, Look Ma no cavities Crest toothpaste, the Flintstones and the Jetsons, transistor radios, fishnets and mini-skirts, Motown, the Beatles, Shindig and Hullabaloo, Clairol hot rollers, bell bottoms, campus anti-war protests, Texas Instruments hand-held calculators, Disco (sorry), The Official Preppy Handbook, YUPPYs, minivans, 401Ks, and hyperventilation about impending (if ever) retirement.

So I reckon with all that cool stuff I got to test-drive, I don't regret hitting this milestone. I'm healthy (knock wood), gainfully employed, surrounded by a loving, crazy family and wonderful friends - what more could I want, besides knees, elbows, and shoulders that worked like they did 10 years ago? And I'll be pulling up to the milestone on a beach in Florida, enjoying the sun with my daughter, son-in-law, and GrandBoy. What better way to kick a little sand in the face of old Father Time, eh?

So to all you year-ending-in-1 babies, I say, embrace your milestone, whatever it may be. In ten years you'll look back on this one and smile.

A wish for a stranger

2011-03-21T19:37:00.004-04:00

A man boarded my #6 uptown train this afternoon after work. I don't know why I happened to look up as he got on at 68th Street, but I did. The first thing I noticed was that he had a swollen, misshapen lip. He sat down on the bench across from me and looked down. I glanced at him again and saw that a dark birthmark covered most of the right side of his face. He continued looking down.

Though I was wrapped up in a story pouring from my iPod into my head, I found myself looking across the aisle at the man every once in a while. It wasn't the lip or the birthmark that kept pricking my interest; neither were ghastly horrible, just, well, I don't know. I wasn't staring at the guy, just glancing over occasionally, trying to read what was in his face. He looked, hmm, stoic. Resigned. Still, it was the end of a work day, and who looks buoyant after that, eh? Anyway, he never raised his eyes, stared at the floor the whole trip.

But for some unexplained reason, I found myself hoping he was happy.

I see all sorts and conditions of folks every day. Why this particular man touched my heart, I do not know. It wasn't pity, not at all. But there was something in the look on his face that made me wonder about him. And by the trip's end - we both got off at 116th Street - I was deeply wanting this fellow to be headed home to a big loving family (or at least a sweet old dog) who thought he hung the moon. I was wishing that he had a job he loved (or at least one that paid the bills). And I want to think that his lip and birthmark make absolutely no difference in his life, that after forty-something years, those things are just a small part of who he is.

As we got off the train, I caught his eye and smiled. He looked down and ducked out of the subway car, headed in the opposite direction from me. I'm sure he was tired. But I do hope he's happy.

Making a sad song better: Happy St. Patrick's Day!

2011-03-17T17:23:00.000-04:00

And don't we miss the Muppet Show? Hm? Chef, Beeker, and Animal - what a trio! Grab a hankie and enjoy. "Oh Danny Boy, oh boy, oh boy . . ."

Roses on Park

2011-03-15T16:20:00.000-04:00

Fake, artistic ones, that is. There was a story on the news about this installation a couple of weeks ago, but I came upon them for the first time as I was trotting up to 59th/Fifth over lunch hour to pick up an Elegant Scribbles job. I bet they looked fabulous covered with snow last month. Though the day is rather gray, here are the snowless versions. No need to stop and smell them.

Just Listen

2011-03-13T16:39:00.008-04:00

Once in a while you just have to stop and hear the roses.

I don't know about you, but day in, day out, I suffer from sensory overload. Mostly, it's a constant assault on the eyes and ears. Everything seems to be flying at me non-stop, from nonsense on a computer or television screen, to angry and/or loud junk cutting the air or bleeding through earbuds. A lot of it can't be avoided, but much of it I bring on myself just by feeling the need to stay connected, to know what's going on. I'm beginning to see the brilliance in "Ignorance is bliss."

Sometimes I have to pull off to the side of the road (figuratively speaking, of course, since I no longer own a car), regulate my breathing, and just listen. Yes, noise is one of the culprits in this overload business, but taking time to sort it out helps make it bearable for me.

Right now, for instance, what do I hear? A breeze is gently rattling my window blinds. Not an irritating sound - kind of nice, as is the breeze. A car or two swooshing by under my window. A truck's gears changing to turn the corner. A tink-tink-tink caused by who-knows-what a block or two away. Car horn in the distance. Whoa - Metro North train incoming, so that wipes out everything else. OK. It's passed. The refrigerator fan just kicked on. A different car horn even farther away. Helicopter in the distance. Mmm. Everything's pretty quiet for a New York Sunday afternoon. Except for the trains and occasional car horn (no car alarms, thank goodness), all is gentle on the ears.

It helps me squeeze out a week's worth of sensory bombardments to stop and concentrate on every little sound. Yes, some times are noisier than others, but separating out each sound - and really listening for the ones that get lost (like the refrigerator) - has the effect of hitting the reset button for me.

Add a cup of tea to that little exercise, and there you have bliss - and ignorance, I suppose. A peaceful Sunday afternoon to you all.

Around the Jackie O.

2011-03-12T18:05:00.000-05:00

It was a beautiful, breezy Saturday afternoon in New York City. Instead of sticking to my end of the park, with Harlem Meer and Conservatory Gardens, I moseyed down to my old stomping grounds in the 80's and walked around the reservoir (the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, officially). Since you couldn't walk with me, I offer up this little digital camera tour.

Tri-Polar Week

2011-03-08T19:45:00.004-05:00

Welcome to Shrove-Gras Ash Lent week. Hang on, because it takes you from pancakes, Mardi Gras beads, and wild celebration to the depths of death and ashes, then pushes you out into a desert for forty days. A tri-polar experience, if you will. It seems kinda dangerous for even the healthiest - mentally and emotionally - among us.

Today was all about indulgence. My pancakes were slathered in butter and soaked in syrup. And yours? I had a slice of King Cake so whisky-soaked that I was breathing fire. And I mean that in a good way.

Tomorrow, everything goes very solemn. It's all about being constantly and uncomfortably reminded that, yes, you are human. You started as dust, and - guess what? - that's where you're ending up. Sounds like a marketing dream for funeral homes and crematoriums, but that doesn't seem to be the case. You never see them outside churches handing out flyers after Ash Wednesday services. Still, it is the one day of the year, other than update-your-will day, where you're confronted with your ultimate demise. Here are some ashes on your forehead to prove that you are, indeed, terminal.

And then, the long stretch of endless heat and sand known as Lent. Ah, me. What to give up? What to take on? Can I maintain forty days of discipline (and does God really care whether I do or don't)? Well, it's enough to make you want to stay in bed and pull the covers over your head. Until Easter. What if I decide to give up Lent? Or just give up giving up?

I'm not feeling particularly desert-y Lent-y this year. Yes, I've thought of a couple of straight-jacket disciplines to squeeze myself into for six weeks, but we'll see what develops. While I think I'll survive the bi-polarity of pancakes and ashes, I'm not sure I'm ready for a tri-polar experience.

Party on for a few more hours, friends. And then get the doctor to write you a prescription for tri-polar meds. Good for six weeks.

Where to begin . . .

2011-03-05T12:44:00.001-05:00

Work. Travel for work. Travel for fun. GrandBoy's first birthday hoopla. Elegant Scribbles projects. Weird weather. Shootings in Arizona. Upheaval in the Middle East. Charlie Sheen.

I know that many people anxiously await the brilliant dribblings of Shorty PJs, so I'm sorry for going such a long time between posts. Too many things have kept me busy over the last few weeks. Only now am I able to emerge into the light and write a little something.

Just for the record, I had nothing to do with the shootings, Middle East upheaval, and - most definitely - Charlie Sheen. I just threw those on the list for the helluvit. But the rest of the stuff has soaked up all of my time. Add in a little time to eat, a little time to sleep, and - poof! - three or four weeks are gone before you know it.

Is everyone else this busy? Well, of course you are. So you understand. Now, let me look at my To-Do List again. Where to begin?

Show Some Love

2011-02-14T08:09:00.003-05:00

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all!

Back in the olden days we used to decorate a shoe box, cut a slit in the top, and bring it to school to collect our valentines. At some point in the day, the teacher would give us time to visit the boxes to put in our little cards (I always liked the flocked ones that I punched out of a booklet). Everybody pretty much got a valentine from everyone else - no hurt feelings, you know.

It's a good day to think about the folks we love, even if we no longer indulge in elementary school Valentine's Day parties. For those of you who have already decorated your Valentine Box, go forth and collect. For those of us who no longer break out the red and pink construction paper and glue, here's a little Valentine's day assignment for you.

Pretend you have a stack of corny little valentines and that everyone you know has a glitzed-out shoebox. Your cards are for the people you really care about. (These are virtual cards, so you can't hurt anyone's feelings by not giving them a card.)
Make a list of all the people in your life that you love. How many valentines do you need?
Give thanks for all those loved ones.
How big do you think your own Valentine Box will need to be if the folks who love you do the same assignment?

Wishing you all a day of love and chocolate!

"Della, get Paul Drake on the phone."

2011-02-07T21:31:00.001-05:00

For the past couple of weeks, I've been lost in Perry Mason-land, thanks to Netflix. It's a world light-years away from our own Law & Order universe, which is what makes the trip so interesting. The stories and styles of the black-and-white 1950s are highly entertaining. No blood, no guts, and everybody's covered up, except for the occasional show-girl. And though things get a little racy once in a while and innuendo abounds, there's no embarrassing sex.

Episode titles like The Case of the Crimson Kiss and The Case of the Half-Wakened Wife (catching the innuendo, hm?) are cleverly corny, and the writers must've had a ball creating them. The iconic theme music, the men's hats and women's shirtwaist dresses, and the whopping great boat-cars nail the series' place in time. I think you can learn more about mid-1950s life and culture from shows like Perry Mason than from history books or newsreels.

The characters of modern day lawyer-cop shows must be green with envy. Perry, Della, and Paul get away with stuff that Jack, Olivia, and Lennie could never slide by the DA or Police Chief. Perry does some pretty outrageous things, like man-handling evidence, breaking and entering, and tricking witnesses. (Objection! Sustained.) Lt. Tragg and DA Burger don't stand a chance, because they're always two steps behind.

My mother loved Perry Mason, but as a kid I found it kind of boring. Now, I find the show interesting, entertaining. All sorts of soon-to-be-famous actors troop through. The stories are solid, albeit the legal angles are often laughable (which adds to the entertainment value). Plus, I can never quite figure out what's up between Della and Paul. As I said, much more interesting now.

I'll let you know if I come to any firm conclusion about Miss Street and Mr. Drake. But now it's time for The Case of the Black-eyed Blonde. No objection.

Just call me Mary Peach Cobbler

2011-02-05T12:08:00.000-05:00

One of the great things about living in New York City is the regular stream of mobster stories. You just don't get much of that in Atlanta, Georgia.

Anyway, the one that caught my eye recently was "Joey Cupcakes is Taken Down, from Rao's Wall." OK, well two things caught my eye: "Joey Cupcakes" and "Rao's." See, I live right down the street from the infamous Rao's, the restaurant impossible to get into unless you know somebody, meaning the owner. It's famous for gangsters (not gangstas) and the likes of Woody Allen.

But the real story here is how some wise guy gets the name "Cupcakes" pinned on him. Gangsters are way ahead of gangstas in tagging their own. Websites abound that will generate a mob nickname - or a gangsta nickname, for that matter, but nothing comes up as brilliant as the real thing. Alas, the NYT article doesn't explain how Joey Cupcakes got his moniker. Sigh. But I like it. What's not to like about cupcakes? Kinda makes you underestimate him, which might be the point.

I'm trying to figure out what my own appropriate mobster nickname should be. I mean, I live right down the street from Rao's, and who knows? I might need a gangster-name handy sometime soon. I don't really see myself attached to the animal kingdom (The Snake, The Ant, Bugsy). Scarface doesn't really work. But I really like the food-nickname option. Too bad Joey already has Cupcakes. I hear Lollipops is taken, too. Hmm. I'm leaning toward something connected to my Southern roots. Fried Chicken? Grits? Greens? I'll work on it.

In the meantime, I wonder where Joey actually buys his cupcakes? (And I hope this post won't get me taken down, and I don't mean from Rao's wall.)

Finally. The Hat.

2011-02-01T20:39:00.002-05:00

A couple of years ago, I posted about my need to find a hat that 1) kept my ears and head warm, and 2) didn't give me hat-head. And, yeah, #2 was the more important to me. No matter how the wind howls or the snow blows - and, Zeus knows, there's been a lot of that around here lately - I brave the elements hatless because I just haven't found anything that meets my hat requirements.

Until now.

A few weeks ago childhood buddy Debbi offered to knit me a hat. Guaranteed warm. Guaranteed hat-headless. It arrived last week while I was in Atlanta, but when I got to work yesterday, there it was. In all its glory. A lovely blue, soft confection of a hat, with long scarf-ties, just waiting to be donned and walked around a New York block a time or two.

It is most definitely warm, covering my head and ears. It's thick and soft, not scratchy. The long ties wrap around to keep my neck warm. I can slip the hat off like a hood while I'm inside or riding the subway. And, believe it or not, you ruthless sceptics - no hat-head! It's genius! It's a miracle! It is the coolest - er, warmest - hat ever! And it was hand-made by a friend who has known me since the fifth grade.

In this most blizzardy year ever, my dear friend has knit with her own hands a hat that keeps me protected from the elements and doesn't flatten my hair. Whew. Just in time! A chapeau for the snow that keeps my hair status quo.

A Winter's Walk

2011-01-16T17:54:00.001-05:00

I spent a couple of hours tromping through Central Park this afternoon, the slice between 65th and 80th Streets. It was late afternoon, and the shadows were falling, but folks were still sledding and walking throughout the park. Cold, but not brutally so, it was New York City wearing her winter Sunday best. Grab a cup of cocoa and enjoy!

Epiphanies

2011-01-15T10:56:00.002-05:00

No one has appeared at my door with gold, frankincense, or myrrh. There are no camels parked on the sidewalk on 115th. And I'm afraid that in this day and time, if you got three wise men together, they'd just end up bickering and throwing insults at each other.

That said and in keeping with this season of Epiphany, little sparklers in my tiny brain have been fizzing all week with illuminating discoveries and realizations. Since you're dying to know what those insights are (wink-wink), I'll share them, in no particular order:

Noses are funny. Funny, as in odd, weird, not attractive. Look around. Start noticing noses. Except for babies and small children (and even lots of them have funny noses), that protuberance in prime face real estate is strange. I don't know why this revelation suddenly hit me this week, but one can't control epiphanies. Oh. And ears are funny, too, but they're not right in the middle of your face.
I don't need 350 Facebook friends. I dearly love keeping up with family, childhood friends, my buddies from Turner Broadcasting, and assorted others, and unlike the Facebook-haters, I find it a wonderful way to stay connected with folks. But as I looked through my list of "friends" over the New Year's holiday, it suddenly hit me that I wanted to readjust who I keep up with. So I quietly disconnected almost 100 Facebook contacts. Oh, yes, I'm the Great De-friender . . .
I'm ready to get rid of all my books. Well, not all, but I have become a book-hoarder, and soon there'll be a reality show camera crew invading my apartment, complete with a fake TV psychologist telling me and the rest of America about my very unhealthy book pathology. I do clear out the books once in a while, but as I sit looking at my shelves and thinking about the boxes of books stored in my closets and under the bed, I'm struck with the question: Why? Why all the books? Now, some I could never part with, but most? Most have served their time and should be passed along to others. Don't know how. Don't know when. But I must have a proper, thorough book-purge soon.
I can live without 24/7 news. I'm taking the Big Picture-Over Time view these days. I do not need to know what's going on all the time. Since I lost political efficacy about 10-12 years ago, the system tends to tick along without my obsessive following anyway. Compulsive news-tracking is as shortsighted as checking stock investments hourly. Sit back. Take action if necessary (yes, keep voting). But news-bombardment just keeps me (and everybody else, so it seems) in an anger zone. I'm chillin', folks. Y'all go on without me for a while.
One does not need to publicly comment or give an opinion on everything. Since when did we assume everyone might be interested in what we're thinking? Does adding our 2-cents'-worth to online news stories or call-in chat shows raise the level of conversation and understanding, or does it further alienate us? We're all entitled to our opinions, but most of the time it's better to keep them to ourselves. (And yes, I see a bit of irony in the fact that I'm saying this on a public blog.)

I'm trying to figure out if these are true revelations or just a result of getting older. I'll wait for another little epiphany on that one. But if three guys want to turn up on my doorstep with a little gold or Chinese food, I'll not turn them away.

Shorty's Sense of Snow

2011-01-08T12:35:00.001-05:00

Folks either love it or hate it. There is no middle ground. Snow brings out the cheerleader or the protester in people.

Me? Oh, honey, I'm leading the band marching out in front of the cheerleaders. I. Love. Snow. Love it. Can't get enough November through February.

Snowfall is always thrilling to me. I'm sure it harks back to the childhood anticipation of no-school "snow days" and the chance to spend a day or two rolling around in the cold, white stuff. Time was spent alternately freezing as we played outside and warming up with hot chocolate and Campbell's Soup once we were back in the house. Back and forth, back and forth. Freezing, warm. Freezing, warm. There's something so energizing and comforting in the process.

Then again, I don't hate cold weather like some folks do. I love the freshness of it. Even in a big city, the air seems brighter and more appealing than the stale, damp awfulness of summer heat. It's the one time of year that I'm comfortable with the temperature. For most people 98.6 is normal; for me, it's 99.4 (just ask my doctor and the Red Cross). Since I naturally run hotter than the rest of the population, I welcome a good thermometer plunge.

I have more creative energy in winter. Maybe it's the sharpness of the air outside that wakes up lethargic brain cells. Maybe it's permission from the weather-gods to spend time inside and dream outrageously. Maybe it's that soups, stews, and hot chocolate inspire me more than sterile green salads. Whatever.

Once February's over and the calendar says March? My snow-love is put away until November. But right now my calendar says January.

So, shake those flakes from the clouds. Paint bare tree branches with a layer of white. Give me something to scrunch my boots through. Offer me the chance (even at my advanced age) to make snow angels, snowballs, and snowmen. Inspire me. Delight me.

Let it snow.

New Year's Eve 2010: Blowing on Old Embers

2010-12-31T14:17:00.004-05:00

The New Year's beans and greens are simmering on the stove. All the fixin's for cornbread are laid out. Snow is still banked up along the streets, but at least the sidewalks and avenues are passable. No matter, because I'm not getting out today.

It's New Year's Eve in New York City. Good-natured craziness is rampant, and I just don't feel the need to add to the chaos. After such a busy Thanksgiving and Christmas season, I'm quite content to stay inside today with a stack of movies and a good book or two.

Actually, I feel the need to do a little self-inventory-taking. Not resolutions, mind you, just a much needed passion-check. Of late, I've felt a little blah about almost everything. The exception to the blahness is my new GrandBoy, of course. But on the whole I seem to have lost a spark (or two) that drives me forward. I'm not expecting any major revelations or insights, but I do think I need to make an honest assessment of what I want to put my soul into.

So over this New Year's weekend, I plan to go it alone, testing myself on this or that, trying to stoke up some life-energy passion for something.

Hand me that poker and bellows, please.

Merry Christmas from Dixie

2010-12-25T10:02:00.000-05:00

And from Atlanta, Georgia, there's peace on earth tonight.

Merry, Merry Christmas to all!

Ode to the Bubble Light

2010-12-15T20:41:00.001-05:00

O, bubbly delight
Festooning the tree,
Your taper deserves laud and praise!
The orangy-red liquid
Is churning away,
A-lulling us into a haze.

No greater invention
Has e’er come our way.
You fizz up our frothy-less gloom.
No iPhone or iPod,
Or iAnything
Compares to your bubbly plume.

Let your light so shine,
The Good Book says;
To hide it can cause real trouble.
So when I shine
A light for me
I hope to Heaven it’ll bubble.

Pull down those tasteful
Little LEDs
Their wow-ness is, oh, so slight.
Shun the chic!
Embrace the glory
Of the wondrous Bubble Light!

Christmas Card Reality

2010-12-03T14:10:00.003-05:00

A great big bright old-fashioned Christmas bulb went off over my head as I pawed through available Christmas card options during lunch hour. That light soaked through my brain, and here's the wisdom it imparted:

Mary. Stop. You do not have to send everybody a Christmas card this year.

It took a few minutes for me to realize what was happening, standing amidst the glorious array of damn expensive cards.

Really, O Great Bulb? Are you telling me that I do not have to figure out the exact right card that expresses my spirit of the season and plunk down loads o' cash for, say, three or four boxes of cards and first class postage just because I've always done that?

I was experiencing Epiphany pre-Christmas. Right in the middle of the Hallmark store on 2nd Avenue in the most Christmasy city on the planet.

Could it be? Could I somehow cull my ancient list of names and addresses and limit myself to - oh, I don't know - 24?

I say 24 because there were a few boxes marked "Value" with 24 cards for $7.99. My mind was a-whirr. Hm. 24. I mentally flipped through my address book (yeah, I still have an actual address book, though I'm sure there's an app for that).

Hey! A goodly number of these friends follow my every movement on Facebook now. They've seen all my cute GrandBoy pictures. They know what I've been doing all year. Dare I drop at least some of them off my Christmas card list this year?

Yes, the light was beginning to sink in. Might there be others that could slide off the list, as well? People I see fairly often? People I haven't heard from in ten years? I just might pull this off!

Now, I know you're saying to yourself, "Why send any cards at all?" Well, two reasons. One, I like to send Christmas cards. And two, I like to get Christmas cards. I love, love, love getting Christmas cards. I love all the picture cards and the notes. I never throw a card away (yeah, I have a huge box filled with old cards, and, yes, I go through them every year).

So. I am now in possession of 24, count 'em - 24, value-boxed Christmas cards. I went kinda cutsie, since I'm a grandmother now, and grandmothers do that kind of thing. The other options were just boring holly and stuff. I will stop by the Grand Central Post Office on my way home and purchase 24 Christmas stamps, plus extra postage for the two that absolutely must fly off to the UK. I will pop in a Christmas movie tonight, address the cards with much love and affection, and get them in the mail by Monday.

To those of you not amongst the 24: Please know that I still love and cherish you as family and friends. It's merely an economic-stress issue, so don't take it personally. And if you drop me from your list this year, I, too, will survive. Though I really, really like getting your cards.

Thank you, O Great Bulb, for descending on me in the middle of the Hallmark store on Second Avenue in New York City, USA. I think I can manage it from here.

Scroogapalooza

2010-12-02T16:41:00.001-05:00

Hang onto your bed curtains, and let the Scrooge-fest begin!

As our reality television world gets weirder by the minute, I'm shutting off the news and Biggest Loser to settle in with all things Christmas Carol-y. Last night I pulled out the first in my Scrooge collection, 1938's A Christmas Carol. Yes, it's black and white, and yes, the Tiny Tim is over-actingly sweet (as they always seem to be, eh?), but there's much to love about this version. Why, Ann Rutherford alone, as that minxy little Ghost of Christmas Past, is worth your while.

I have a great stack of Scrooge movies, starring the likes of Mr. Magoo, George C. Scott, Bill Murray, Alistair Sim, and Miss Piggy. I'm a stickler for all the famous lines: "Every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart." Or "'If they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population." And "I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me." Sometimes the scriptwriters have played a little fast and loose with the quotes, but for the most part they pop up in every version.

Between now and December 25, I'll pace my viewings to make sure I see all of the renditions over the course of the holidays. And I'll watch any version (yes, even Ebbie with Susan Lucci) except for the ones with Patrick Stewart and Kelsey Grammar. Beyond that, I'm game for whatever wacky casting - live, cartoon, claymation - you throw my way.

I've asked this before, but I'll ask again: What's your favorite film/TV version of "A Christmas Carol"? Or are you just a big humbug who thinks Christmas is a poor excuse to pick a man's pocket every 25th of December? Hm?

Thanksgiving 2010

2010-11-25T21:21:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving Eve

2010-11-24T21:00:00.000-05:00

'Twas the night before Thanksgiving, and all through the house:
The turkey is prepped.
The cornbread dressing is just waiting for tomorrow's turkey drippings.
Various casseroles are in the fridge.
New tablecloths are ready to be spread out on the tables.
The dishwasher and clothes washer are both a-washin'.
The baby's fast asleep, with visions of cranberries dancing in his head.
His mama and daddy are having a night out with friends.
And I'm in my jammies, seriously considering an adult beverage or two.
Tomorrow: family, friends, food, parades, football, and turkey-coma.
But tonight? Thanksgiving anticipation.
All through the house.

Travel Trauma Update

2010-11-23T10:53:00.001-05:00

I love La Guardia airport, even though it's one of the rattiest places around. You'd think a city like New York would have a first-class, shiny, Emerald City-like airport, but it doesn't. JFK is even sadder. But I digress. My point is that I figured the last place in the country to install the new full body scanners would be La Guardia, and - whoo-hoo! - I was right.

No travel trauma this trip.

Word filtered through the security lines: No scanners! Relief all around. I think it's the first time in nine years I've seen folks glad to take of their shoes and walk through plain old metal detectors. Fast, easy, non-invasive. And not one of those planes had a terrorist incident!

I'm hoping by the time I go through security at Atlanta (a real first-class, shiny, Emerald City-like airport) next Tuesday, the rules will have changed whereby the full body scanners and aggressive pat-downs are used more sparingly. We'll have to wait and see, I guess. I won't even complain about having to take off my shoes.

However, the terrorist snow globe ban is still in effect. Just warnin' ya'.

Shorty's Thanksgiving Rules

2010-11-22T13:46:00.003-05:00

Since Thanksgiving Day is rapidly approaching, I want to remind you of the rules of the holiday according to me, Shorty PJ's. Pay attention because the Great Pumpkin, the Enormous Turkey, and Santa Claus are watching. Memorize, take to heart, and live accordingly:

If you're on a diet or are a vegetarian/vegan, keep it to yourself. No lecturing, eye-rolling (as we pile our plates full), or playing the martyr at the Thanksgiving table. Nobody wants to hear it.
Know the words to - and sing over the course of the holiday - at least one Thanksgiving song, be it "Over the River and Through the Woods," "We Gather Together," "Come Ye Thankful People, Come," or any of the harvest tunes in ye old American songbook.
Wash your hands before preparing any of the feast-food and/or setting the feast-table(s). Spy-cams are set up in randomly selected bathrooms around the country. Do not be caught unawares.
Use cloth napkins. It's the Thanksgiving meal, for goodness' sake! Show a little class. Besides, life is too short to only use paper napkins.
Be on time for the meal. Late-comers are not guaranteed seats at the table or food on their plates. This is the Olympic event of meals. You'd better be there when the gun goes off.
Carve the turkey before bringing it to the table. I know everyone likes that Norman Rockwell picture but trust me, your life will be so much easier if you do it ahead of time. Plus, if you carve it correctly (which is impossible to do at the table), you'll get a lot more meat off that old bird.
No table conversation about politics, religion, Justin Bieber, or any reality television program. It's actually a good time to try to weasel deep, dark family secrets out of elderly relatives who are in a turkey stupor.
If you didn't bring something to the feast (side dish, dessert, drinks, rolls, etc.), you're out of the left-overs lottery. Only food-contributors get to divvy up what's left after the onslaught.
No Christmas anything - decorations, movies, carols - until the day after Thanksgiving. The one exception is the original "Miracle on 34th Street" (Maureen O'Hara, Natalie Wood) since it features Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Be thankful. Take time to really think about all your blessings. Don't be afraid to let people know why you're thankful. Appreciate your life. Stop whining. At least for one day.

Colors of Autumn, New York Style

2010-11-21T14:39:00.001-05:00

A cool, beautiful November Sunday. The perfect time to stroll through Central and Riverside Parks and enjoy the colors of Thanksgiving week - before the marching bands and giant balloons take over!

Travel Trauma?

2010-11-20T10:58:00.003-05:00

All the news about full-body scanners and 'way more than pat-down searches at airports right now is making me more and more uneasy in the run-up to my flight to Atlanta for Thanksgiving. I feel in my bones there's just something not right about it, security aside. What will I choose to do when I get to the security lines on Monday - scanner or "pat"-down?

I was mildly concerned last month before my trip to the UK. A few days before I was scheduled to leave, it was announced that the new full-body scanners were in place at JFK, the airport I was flying out of. I'd decided ahead of time to do the pat-down, because I just don't trust the body scanner approach. But I worried needlessly. Not a body scanner in sight, just the plain old metal detectors. And leaving Aberdeen and Heathrow? Same thing - regular metal detectors, plus the added benefit of NOT having to remove my very safe looking suede flats. Whew.

Fast-forward three weeks. While I still do not like the body scanner idea, the so-called "pat-down" is not the light, cursory pat-downs of old. Too many really inappropriate, humiliating reports of this process have caused me to rethink my choice. And I assume that's the point of making the pat-down more and more invasive - to make people opt for the quicker, easier scanner. No, no. I don't mean to sound paranoid or like a conspiracy theorist, but I don't think you have to be either to reach that conclusion.

And that's what I don't like about this whole thing. I don't care if some TSA flunky is watching my full body scan in a back room. But it seems overly intrusive - crashing through simple rights of privacy. And I'm not convinced at all that any of this makes us more secure. If a brazen hussy like me starts feeling nervous and paranoid, then we've really lost this battle, me thinks.

I leave through La Guardia on Monday afternoon. Perhaps LGA's scanner/pat-down system isn't in place. One can only hope. Maybe it won't be as bad as portrayed. I'll report back.

I will, however, be wearing clean underwear (as always), just in case.

The Sweet Spot of the Year

2010-11-14T12:02:00.000-05:00

Every year ends in the best possible way. Even the lean, mean years taper out though golden-leaved light and into bright icy blue air that twinkles red and green. The oppressive heat and humidity of the summer and early autumn give way to the fresh, the cold, the invigorating.

But it's more than changes in light and temperature. It's a time that wraps its arms around family and sweet traditions.

Much of it depends on childhood memories and trigger-emotions created and nurtured early on by our mothers and daddies, aunts and uncles, cousins, grandparents, good friends. Consciously or unconsciously, family and friends-like-family played out those Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas traditions year after year, adding a little here, a little there as new members were welcomed into our lives.

Now, the calendar pages peal off toward December 31. The smells, the stories, the DNA-bred-in-the-bone feelings come together to anchor and inspire us. The golds of autumn and the red and green Christmas lights remind us to connect. To embrace. To give thanks. To laugh. To love.

And I need that internal assurance that I'm a part of a whole - a closely woven fabric of family and friends. It's what makes this the sweet spot of the year.

My Kind of Funeral

2010-11-10T17:03:00.000-05:00

We were sitting in the upstairs flat of Jean's friend Lena, when Lena mentioned the recent death of a mutual acquaintance.

"She's having one of those humorist funerals, you know."

I slid my eyes over to Jean, thinking perhaps I had misheard her friend's thick Scottish accent. Judging from the expression on Jeannie's face, I had heard correctly.

The two women went on discussing the funeral, with Jean calling it "humanist" and Lena calling it "humorist." I zoned out, as my mind drifted to exactly what a "humorist" funeral might entail. By the way, I am not the least interested in a humanist funeral, as I expect a full-blown Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, booming pipe organ, Alleluia-sort of thing. But a humorist funeral? Hmmm. I might be able to get into that.

I'm thinking a few paranoid words about death from Woody Allen, then a phone call to God from Bob Newhart, as Lily Tomlin's Ernestine works the heavenly switchboard ("one ringy-dingy, two ringy-dingy"). Maybe Amy Sedaris as Candy could stumble in to say something inappropriate. I don't know. The more I think about it, the more I'm liking the "humorist funeral" idea.

Wonder how I can work that into a Prayer Book event?

Poppies, della Robbia, and fish and chips

2010-11-09T06:28:00.001-05:00

I just got back from nine days in England and Scotland, a trip that was mostly business with a little free time thrown in. Time spent connecting and re-connecting with missioner colleagues in the Church of England and the Anglican Communion is always a joyful learning experience for me. And despite news stories to the contrary, there is much affection and respect for The Episcopal Church. Though most of my days were scheduled to the hilt, I did find a little time to mooch around London, visit with friends, and relax on a couple of long-distance train trips.

The Victoria and Albert Museum held me captive for the better part of a rainy Halloween Sunday. It's been decades since I've wandered around the place, usually opting for the National Gallery or the British Museum, so I'd forgotten what a lovely place the V&A is. There's so much to see there that it can be over-whelming (as with most museums), but the glazed terracotta della Robbia pieces caught my attention, in particular. The colors stood out among the duller pieces of the age. As I was taking a picture of one of them, a man was sketching and noticed that though the flowers were lilies and daisies, the leaves were birch. Ah, well, call it artistic license.

Poppies - little paper ones in remembrance of World War I - are everywhere this time of year in the UK as Armistice Day approaches. I proudly wore one on my coat in honor of my old friend Walter Wildgoose. Remembering Walter lead me from the V&A toward Chelsea and a stroll through the grounds of the Royal Hospital where Walter spent his last years. The grounds, as always, were beautiful - green, green grass and fall colors ablaze outside the barracks and in Ranelagh Gardens. The Royal Hospital and all the poppies remind me of how fortunate I was to get to know Walter and his story.

Food. Yes, always important wherever one travels, and in the UK I demand a full English breakfast (eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, tomatoes - the works), good Indian food, and fish and chips. It goes without saying that gin and tonic or a cold cider is part of the mix, as well. It's hard to find a slap-up English breakfast anymore, but my little hotel in Earls Park did a decent job.

As for Indian food, I met up with blog pal Jo and her son Thomas for a really fine meal down in Addleston. We took our time, savored the spices, and talked our heads off. (Poor Thomas!) My Lamb Ceylon was hot and yummy, just the way I like it. I managed one other Indian meal while I was in London - nice food, but cramped quarters, and not nearly as companionable an atmosphere as the meal with the Moores.

And fish and chips? In nine days I woofed down four f&c meals - all delicious, though the prize has to go to the two I had in Stonehaven, a little fishing village on the North Sea near Aberdeen. The fish was fresh and cooked to perfection. I also discovered cullen skink, a smoked fish soup made with double cream and thinly sliced potatoes. Must find a recipe and try to whip some up.

Any trip that combines strengthening business connections as well as personal friendships is hard to beat. My visit with the Moores and my few days in Scotland with dear friend Jean give life a needed spark. I'm still trying to recover from the time-zone change, as well as two - yes, two - daylight savings time switches (UK on Oct. 30 and US on Nov. 6), but it's all in a traveler's stride.

Perhaps a gin and tonic or a cold cider would help?

Ooooooh, Let's All Be Scared!

2010-10-31T07:02:00.001-04:00

Even though I'm in London on this All Hallows Eve, I am trying to keep the good ol' American(ized) Halloween spirit in my heart today. It's rainy and gloomy here (good, good - adds to the atmosphere . . . ), so I'll probably forego a day of cemetery-tromping and opt for a museum. However, that will not deter me from reflecting on the scary stuff of 2010. Here's my list:

Justin Bieber's hair. Every time I see this 10-year-old boy posing as a teen heart-throb, I want to jump into bed and pull the covers over my head. What is with that creeeepy hair? *spine-shiver*
Everyone running for political office. I'm terrified of all of you. You are not our best and brightest. You are our greediest and dumbest. Will someone please wake me from this election year nightmare?
That dancing cougar-woman in the Chico commercials. Sends me running from the room every time the ad hits the TV. The problem is that her look-alike cougar-zombie pals roam the Upper East Side in packs, even in broad daylight. True. *cringe, whimper*
Bedbugs. Though I haven't had the thrill of meeting any of the little critters yet, all the news reports keep me awake at night thinking, Okay, what will I do if I get bedbugs? *itchy, scratchy*
Charlie Sheen. 'Nuff said.

Okay, now you. What's scaring you this Halloween? My suggestion is to settle in with a good horror flick and reminisce about those good old innocent scary days - pig's blood at a prom, blood-sucking Transylvanians, and satan-spawned devil-babies. That should take your mind off Justin Bieber's hair.

Hanging Out With The Astors

2010-10-24T10:17:00.003-04:00

I don't want to brag, but I spent yesterday afternoon with the likes of John Jacob Astor, Clement Clarke Moore, and John James Audubon. They were absolutely perfect company - they're all dead and buried in the Trinity Cemetery and Mausoleum. Trinity Wall Street in Lower Manhattan ran out of buryin' room in 1842 and acquired some nice property at the northern end of the island to accommodate all the folks needing a posh place to be interred. Much of the land was the original estate of Audubon (now the site of The Church of the Intercession).

Hanging out in cemeteries is one of my favorite things to do, as long as I'm not there on official business, if you know what I mean. There's so much to be learned from the information people choose to put on their markers. I'm always sad to see markers with lists of small children - usually four or more names of babies all under 3 years of age. Families just carried on after all that death, I reckon. And of course some families have huge mausoleums or massive statues. Oy, look at us!

The weather was gorgeous, and I was the only one around, except for a few folks working at the church. The cemetery is split in two by Broadway, with the eastern division taking up the blocks behind and alongside the church, and the western division running along Riverside Drive. Views of the Hudson and the George Washington Bridge were exceptional.

Former mayor of New York Ed Koch, though not yet dead, has his place all staked out and the marker and bench already in place. Talk about planning ahead! And I found a George Bartow buried atop a hill in the western division and wondered if he might be a Yankee branch of our own Bully Bartow family tree. The only marker I couldn't find was Jerry Orbach's (yes, they still bury folks in the communal mausoleums at Trinity).

Hanging out with dead folks can be a pleasant thing to do. In the bright sunlight.

Children's marker. I saw 4 or 5 of these in cemetery.

Former mayor Ed Koch has planned ahead. (He's not dead yet.)

John James Audubon's resting place

The Proof is in the Puttin'

2010-10-24T09:22:00.004-04:00

Proof-reading. Ugh. Almost as bad as an algebra test. And yet, it is part of my job. Not the fun part. It's a tough discipline, one that requires total concentration on spelling, punctuation, and grammar alone.

Now, I'll admit that I am by nature and education a picky spelling/punctuation person, and there are certain grammatical errors that have a positively physical effect on me (mixing up "less" and "fewer," for example). Still, I'm also one to get drawn in by whatever I am reading, and unless the errors are glaringly obvious, I stop being Comma Queen and focus on the subject matter.

If, on the other hand, the material to be proofed is mind-grindingly boring, my mind wanders into Never Never Land instead of focusing. Yes, proof-reading is a no-win situation for me.

So I thought I'd take this little break from proofing a training manual (quite interesting topic, actually) in hopes of clearing my head before slogging through the rest. Maybe a cup of tea. Or a full-on apartment cleaning. Or a lovely root canal.

Yes, the proof is in the puttin' - puttin' yourself away from all distractions and into the nitty-gritty specifics. Hm. I've just felt a raging need to scrub the toilet.

I can complain all I want

2010-10-19T20:34:00.000-04:00

I voted. Since I'll be at a conference in England on election day, I cast an absentee ballot. Marked it. Mailed it. So I've earned my right to complain, thank you very much. And sometimes that's about the only reason I find to vote. I really would hate to give up my Constitutional right to complain. That is in the Constitution, right?

Truth is, I lost my political efficacy around 1998 and have yet to rediscover it. I feel totally powerless, politics-wise. Yes, I can vote, but whichever way I go from election to election, other Powers That Be have more impact than I - multi-gazillionaires, big insurance, big banks, media-yammerers. It doesn't matter which political party is in power, there seems to be too many outside forces pulling the (real) strings. My one little measly vote simply can't compete.

Politics has always been a mean game. If you know your history, you know that to be a fact. Shameless behavior is nothing new. But it does suck the life out of good citizens over the long haul. There is a great temptation to throw up our collective hands and say "To hell with all of it." Yet, I have no idea how to fix the meanness, other than requiring everyone - candidates, citizen groups, lobbyists, etc., - to act honorably. Can we not at least find our way to "honorable"? Sigh.

But, I voted. I've done all I can do in this political cycle. It's not much. But I have the feeling that the only thing I've won is the right to complain.

Good Day/Not Good Day

2010-10-10T00:17:00.002-04:00

It's been an interesting day. As I sit with my feet up, I'm weighing all the pros and cons of the day. Let's see which list is longer, "Good Day" or "Bad Day," though I think I know how this will turn out.

Good Day:

Morning phone call from Daughter and GrandBoy. Always a delight to catch up on his latest antics.
Apartment still clean from last weekend's super-clean-up and a week's worth of being a good girl, cleaning as needed. Allowed me to have a relaxing day.
Perfect weather, bright blue sky and just enough breeze to keep things comfortable.
Great podcast walking tour, Made in NY, highlighting movie and television locations in Tribeca and Lower Manhattan. And, yes, that is a picture of the Ghostbusters firehouse. Must do Part 2 sometime soon.
Made a totally delish applesauce-cinnamon-walnut bundt cake.
Did not receive any bills in the mail today. Nothing. Total junk mail.
Remembered to take a book back to the library on the exact due date. Whew.
Did not wait over two minutes for any subway train today. That must be a record for a Saturday, when train schedules are so wonky.
Still relishing the come-from-behind win of the Atlanta Braves in post-season play-off game in San Francisco last night. Keep surprising us (in a good way), Los Bravos!
Jane Lynch is hosting Saturday Night Live.
Stayed healthy and safe. No stomach virus, plague, headaches, or other catastrophes.

Bad Day:

Well, it was just a matter of time, right? My beloved Alabama Crimson Tide suffered a totally embarrassing thrashing at the hands of South Carolina. Sad, sad. Still love ya', though, Tide - now, buck up for the rest of the season. Roll Tide!
Remember the applesauce cake I made? Well, I really wanted it to be a pumpkin-spice-walnut cake, but I could not find one single can of pumpkin in all of Spanish Harlem. Seriously. And, sure, I could've tracked down a real pumpkin and done it from scratch, but I was not about to go that route. So I settled for applesauce cake. Great, but I was craving pumpkin.
I did not win the lottery. Of course, I didn't play, either, but I didn't find a winning ticket on the ground or anything.

Now. Which list is longer, hm? Of course, the "Good Day" list. But we knew that all along, right? I can rise above Bama's football loss and having to make the applesauce-pumpkin trade-off. And if I'd wanted to win the lottery, I shoulda' bought a ticket. So I won't even dignify it as a "Bad Day," but as a "Not Good Day" list. And just look at all the fabulous "Good Day" stuff!

Countin' my blessings, folks. Countin' my blessings.

Just in Time for Halloween: New Horror Flicks

2010-10-07T20:17:00.003-04:00

Disappointed at the pitiful lack of solid-good horror films over the last few years, I submit for your approval several concepts that should increase the horror movie box office take:

Invasion Of The Giant Thing Overhead: Mild-mannered, middle class couple goes through a variety of degrading horrors before boarding a plane for Central City, Mid America, only to find an unspeakable terror awaits them as they try to stuff their luggage into the overhead bin. Filmed in Head-Bang-A-Vision. Audiences will thrill to the feeling that heavy back-packs and tote bags are repeatedly falling on their heads!
The Bloody Cult Of The Sudden-Stoppers: Unsuspecting citizens in Metropolis are terrorized by a cult of ignoramuses who stop dead-still at the bottom or top of escalators, causing total carnage as folks pile into them. Be warned! We are not responsible for audience heart attacks or puking during the bloody escalator shredding scenes.
Revenge Of The Money-Hoarding ManiAx: Monstrous bankers hold hard-working customers hostage by placing 5-day holds on deposits, upping bank fees, and forgetting to credit direct deposits into accounts. The ax-wielding men in pinstripes leave trails of broken heads, broken hearts, and broken dreams. Gauze and adhesive tape will be given to each theatre-goer to soak up the incredible rivers of blood.
The Creature Screams Among Us: Passengers settle into their seats in the train's Quiet Car. All is calm, all is blissfully silent. But, oh ye passengers, do not get too comfortable. A cell phone rings. A loud-mouth, brainless fool answers. Thus begins two hours of hair-raising horror, as the Creature holds an entire train hostage to his brain-exploding, skin-peeling phone conversations. Shot in Ear-Bleed-O-Vision.
Attack Of The Deadly Burrito: It looks so harmless, with its luscious refried beans packed inside a soft flour tortilla. But it contains all the stuff that will send you straight to the toilet - for days on end. We cannot give away the frightening running-out-of-toilet-paper ending. Bring an extra pair of pants or wear an adult diaper. Life-like smells will stay with you for years. And you'll never look at a bean burrito the same way again.

See? No need to remake classics like Halloween, Friday the 13th, or Night of the Living Dead. Leave them alone, and create a few new horror classics. Mwahahahahahahah! Mwah. Ha. Ha. William Castle lives!

A Few Modest Proposals: Education

2010-10-02T12:38:00.003-04:00

Dissecting the problems of the American education system is all the rage now. It happens every few years. Nothing much ever comes of it, other than a few newfangled, often silly programs for math or reading or bulletin board design. As a former student and a former high school teacher, I feel uniquely qualified - well, as qualified as anybody - to impart my solutions to the education "crisis." Learn and do:

Let teachers teach. Parents, stand in support of them. Most of my teachers were outstanding, but I did have a few awful ones along the way. Mother and Daddy always stood solidly in the teacher's corner, good or bad. I knew that. That parent-teacher support also ensured classroom discipline. Parents, use your helicopter skills outside the classroom to encourage reading, play time, and to make sure homework assignments are done. And if your little darling has a lousy teacher along the way? Well, welcome to the real world, with the occasional lousy boss or supervisor. Learn to function and carry on.
Stop teaching to these ridiculous standardized tests. Nothing is gained by it, and it keeps teachers from really teaching and students from really learning. Use them for their original purpose, but stop putting so much emphasis on them. No more SAT tutors!
Arrange the students' desks in the time-honored system of rows. No more circles. No more cushions or learning centers. Rows. Facing forward. Sitting in rows eliminates (as much as possible) distractions. The teacher can see each little face. Rows are safe and functional. Rows.
Provide sturdy, comfortable desks for the students. Have you tried to sit in one of the unstable, molded plastic monstrosities filling today's classrooms? Who on earth could concentrate for more than 5 minutes in those awful things? Go back to sturdy, solid seats with desks large enough to spread out a notebook and textbook. Same for little kids. Give them solid chairs and desks.
Concentrate on basic grammar and spelling skills. Effective communication isn't possible without the proper tools. All we do is yammer on about math and science, math and science, when the real problem is that foundational, everyday communication skills are lacking.
Put away the beans and buttons, and unpack the flashcards. Students, especially the little ones, have a great capacity for memorizing and learning via rote. This is not a bad thing. Tap into it while you can. To this day, whenever I have to add, subtract, multiply, or divide, I see the appropriate flashcard pop up in my head. Unpopular, I know, but face it, a lot of what we know as adults we memorized as kids. I suggest using the beans and buttons for art projects, not math.
Teach handwriting skills. Handwriting, especially cursive, gets a bum rap these days as everyone taps out stuff on a keyboard. But proper handwriting is a good discipline to acquire and can be applied to lots of other areas of learning. Plus, everyone needs a fabulous way to sign her/his name, eh?
Get rid of backpacks. Why load down students with so much stuff? No one should have to tote all of their textbooks and electronic goodies around all the time. Require a notebook or tablet (real paper, not electronic), pens/pencils, and, if necessary, a USB flash drive for bringing electronic work (even electronic textbooks) to and from classroom and home computers. Set our children free!
Demand courtesy in the classroom, in the hallways, and on the playing fields. This goes for teachers, students, administrators, and parents. We must become a civil society or education is useless. Be nice.
Enforce school dress codes. I don't like school uniforms, but I'm all for stricter dress codes. This goes for teachers, too. Start dressing like adults in the business world. Grow up, cover up, brush your teeth and hair. Works across socio-economic lines.

Schools can't be all things to all people. We have to stop expecting teachers to be parents and law enforcement officers, as well as effective teachers. Parents, do your job. Teachers, do your job. You can't make schools safe with metal detectors; you make them safe when teachers and parents work in tandem.

Several things stand out about my fifth grade class picture. One: it was lily white. A very bad thing. Yet the students were a real socio-economic mix - some wealthy, some poor, lots in the middle. Two: 29 kids. Our classes were usually 28-32, considered too big today. But I guarantee you that Mrs. Peters had very few discipline problems. And she was such a sweetie! Three: sitting in sturdy desks, in rows. Four: actual chalk on actual chalkboards (I hate the dry-erase stuff). Five (and maybe the most important thing): the PTA Attendance Banner that meant our class had the most parents attending PTA meetings.

So, there's my 2-cents' worth on the education miasma. A longing for the 1950's? Perhaps. But more a longing for courtesy, civility, and solid classroom learning. Just fix it before GrandBoy Liam lands at the schoolhouse door.

2010-09-26T20:40:00.002-04:00

I took advantage of the Smithsonian Media's free Museum Day yesterday by printing out a ticket for The Morgan Library & Museum. Friend Barbara has always raved about it, and it's one New York jewel I'd not explored. So, Desire + Free + Saturday = Shorty Hits The Morgan. There was only one massive disappointment, but I'll get to that later.

Seems old Pierpont Morgan, Sr. was quite the collector of manuscripts and artifacts, and fortunately Pierpont, Jr. saw fit to give the public access to these treasures in 1924. It seems kind of a hodge-podge of buildings. Well, hodge-podge isn't the right term. Maybe, "distinctive" is better.There's a big old brownstone, the McKim buiding, a museum annex, and a new Renzo Piano expansion.

Current special exhibits feature Roy Lichtenstein drawings, Mark Twain manuscripts and letters (what splendid handwriting the man had!) , Degas drawings and sketchbooks, and photos, film, and artifacts from Anne Morgan's volunteer work in France after World War I. As a WWI aficianado I found the Anne Morgan exhibit really interesting and quite a tribute to the women who went to France after the war to set up libraries, schools, and hospitals in one of the devastated areas.

My big disappointment is that the McKim building is undergoing renovation and won't open again until the end of October. I was looking forward to seeing Mr. Morgan's study and library and the rest of that gorgeous building, but, alas, it was not to be. Not this time. Sigh.

The Morgan is one of the few places in NYC that doesn't allow photography inside the building, so I can only offer you a few exterior shots. But check out the museum's webside for lovely pictures of the interior and exhibits.

And a reminder: Do yo'self a favor and check out free Museum Day next year. Seems to be a great selection of museums all over the country, so start planning now to make out like a bandit. I mean, what J. P. Morgan paid a gazillion dollars for, I got to see for free yesterday.

A Moonful of Sugar

2010-09-22T20:42:00.001-04:00

There's not much "sugar" in the "medicine" of having to get up at 3:00am in order to strike out by 4:00 to catch a 4:40 train to Washington DC, so I wasn't expecting much on my pre-dawn ride from East Harlem to Penn Station. I dragged my sleepy butt into the spot-on-time, pre-scheduled car in the hope that I would rouse up enough along the way to crawl through the station and roll onto the (right) train.

But, you know what? As the car turned left onto Fifth Avenue at 115th to zip down to 33rd, there was no way I could close my eyes and lean back. On my right, a huge, nearly full moon grazed the tops of the Central Park trees. "I'm with ya', kiddo," it called out to me. "At least, until we get to all those Midtown skyscrapers." We caught all the lights just as they turned green, so it was smooth sailing past the park, the Guggenheim, the Met, the toney Upper East Side rich folks apartments.

The Plaza and its fountain were lit up and looking end-of-summer spectacular. Bergdorf's, Tiffany's, all-night Duane Reades and diners had store windows ablaze. And, yes, the City That Never Sleeps offered us plenty company in the form of traffic.

Bottom line, it was worth waking up for. A moonful of sugar helps the waking-up-at 3am medicine go down. Spectacular city!

The Season of the Cigar Box Smell

2010-08-31T17:04:00.005-04:00

Reams of paper, books, new leather shoes, a box of crayons. The air is teeming with back-to-school smells right now. Walk into any big box store, drug store, convenience store, or office supply establishment, and all those fine, scholarly odors whack you right upside the head. Such memories!

Oh, the possibilities! (Yeah, those possibilities were usually dead by the mid-October, but still.) Just deciding which 3-ring binder to buy was a major kid-decision. I remember having a great zippered binder that was a laminated map of the world (very useful that year). So much to choose from: How many dividers? 16- or 24-count Crayolas? Paste from the school store or Woolworth's? Pencil box or vinyl case that hooked into a notebook?

And don't get me started on making the all-important school shoes and raincoat/windbreaker decisions! I repeat: Oh! The possibilities.

But the most evocative back-to-school smell has to be a fresh, clean cigar box. Sturdy and compact, a cigar box was the perfect container for school supplies. Seems like it was something that only Daddy could bring home (who knows where daddies got 'em?), and seems like the box was always King Edward brand. Ah, the smell! I don't like the smell of a cigar being smoked, but the smell of the cigar box is just heavenly. And so, well, school-y smelling.

I miss back-to-school shopping, but it's so much more complicated and expensive today. And, shoot, probably politically incorrect to keep one's school supplies in a cigar box. But back in the day, back when school didn't start until the day after Labor Day, we'd turn up in our neat school clothes with King Edward cigar boxes packed with pencils, erasers, crayons, paste, and scissors, all ready for some book-larnin'.

I think I'm going to stop by a smoke shop to see if I can get a free King Edward cigar box. For my "school" supplies, doncha' know.