Bye-Bye, Carlin

Has June 2008 not been the deadliest month for celebrities in recent memory? (I'll add Harvey Korman to the mix, though he missed the cut by leaving us May 29.) Friend JC Burns posted about this the other day. And now, George Carlin.

I posted about Carlin in November 2005, so I'll leave that as my tribute since it links to two good articles about Carlin.

“Some people see things that are and ask, Why? Some people dream of things that never were and ask, Why not? Some people have to go to work and don't have time for all that ...” - George Carlin

"The Visit That Went Like This"*

Whirlwind tour. Burning all candles at both ends. Meeting ourselves coming and going. And that's just a taste of what things were like around here once the girlfriends hit New York City last Sunday afternoon (2 hours late, via Philly). We turned this town inside-out before I put them into the airport limo yesterday morning. Since then, I've been in uber-nap-taking mode.

Because there's just too much to tell in one post, and because I'm a total vegetable right now, I'll give you a quick rundown of what we accomplished in one short week. Here goes:

Spamalot, Hourglass Tavern, Central Park (Bethesda Fountain, Strawberry Fields, Boat House, Reservoir, countless statues and gardens), The Dakota, Emerald Inn, Tom's Restaurant ("Seinfeld"), Cathedral of St. John the Divine, Riverside Park, Grant's Tomb, Cornelia Street Cafe, Greenwich Village, Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Grand Central Station, NBC Studio Tour, Rockefeller Center, St. Patrick's Cathedral, The Plaza, Trump Tower and 5th Avenue hoity-toity stores, Empire State Building Observation Deck, The Museum of Natural History, Radio City Music Hall Tour, Circle Line Harbor Lights Cruise, Patsy's Pizza, Metropolitan Museum of Art, St. Bartholomew's Church, United Nations, Gramercy Tavern, Union Square, Sex and the City (yeah, we took time out to see a movie), World Trade Center site, St. Paul's Chapel, Trinity Wall Street, Wall Street, Federal Hall, US Custom House, Bowling Green Park and the bull, Fraunces Tavern, City Hall Park and Municipal Center, Little Italy, Chinatown, Manhattan Bridge (walked to Brooklyn), Brooklyn waterfront, Brooklyn Bridge, and a tiny Spanish Harlem apartment where we finally collapsed Friday night and watched three movies and ate junk food.

I'm sure I left one or two things off the list, but you get the drift. We went from sun-up to sun-down, hitting all the city sites on the friends' must-do lists. The point was to be so tired by the time we got back to my place at night, that nobody minded having to sleep stacked up in 600 square feet.

It was fun, but very tiring. I'm looking forward to getting back to the hum-drum of work tomorrow and just being part of the workaday crowd. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put my feet up for a while.

*Very poor reference to Spamalot's "The Song That Goes Like This."

The girls are goin' on the town

Every June four of my childhood girlfriends and I get together for a weekend of catching up, looking forward, and - of course - food. The venue rotates through the group: two are still in Chattanooga, one's in Franklin, Tennessee, and one lives on Sand Mountain, Alabama (no, seriously). All the years I lived in Atlanta, my house was a popular destination because, well, because it was in Atlanta, and we could hook up with even more old friends who'd moved there. Kate refers to this annual event as "The Old Ladies' Slumber Party."

But now I'm in New York. Somehow, one weekend just wasn't going to do, so Linda, Susan, and the two Sharons arrive today for a week's visit. Two of them, I think, have never been to NYC. Everyone stated their sight-seeing d'ruthers a while back, so the week ahead will be quite the Manhattan Marathon.

Tonight, we're having a pre-theatre meal at The Hourglass Tavern before heading to the Shubert for Spamalot. I've seen it - remember, I sat 10 seats down from Liza when the show was in previews? - but I got a great deal on great seats, so Spamalot it is. I guess the deal was available because most shows will be duking it out at Radio City Music Hall for the Tony Awards this evening. Anyway, I thought we should play it safe with a rousing, funny show, rather than a subdued one. So there's a plan for tonight's entertainment.

My concern is how five grown women are going to bed down in my tiny apartment. I actually have places to sleep - 1 double bed, 1 full-size sofa, and a queen-size air-bed, but where that air-bed's going, I have no idea. Wonder how they feel about sleeping in the hall. Ah, well. We'll work it out.

And Bailey? Well, there was no way five women and a dog would fit in my SpaHa abode, so Bailey is spending the week at doggie camp. I'm trusting that it's more the fun kind of camp and not the army kind. No, I did check it out. It'll do her good to be out of Manhattan for a week.

I'll try to post throughout the week as The Girls Do New York. Now, off to La Guardia to meet my buddies!

Good times and bum times, I've seen 'em all and my dear . . .

I'm still here. (I love stealing from Stephen Sondheim!)

I am still here. I have survived a major conference, new job expectations (the small print stuff), the heat and humidity of Baltimore, several testy meetings about websites and branding, and a general early-summer malaise (why can't I be on summer vacation, too??). I've learned a lot about planning and pulling off a conference and even more about human nature, most especially the great chasm of difference between the Can-do's and the Whiners.

Currently, I'm preparing to welcome my four childhood buddies, arriving Sunday for a week's stay in New York. We always get together for a weekend over the summer, just to catch up with each other's lives and play remember-when. But since NYC was chosen as the destination, the girls decided we needed a week to do that. So I have a full slate of tourista activities planned. I'll post about it so that you, too, can enjoy the latest episodes of "Fun (Not Sex) and the City," coming to a blog near you next week.

Sorry I didn't post about the passing of the great Harvey Korman, but Pete did - so, here's to you Hedley Lamarr . . . and Rhett Butler and all the other great characters you played on The Carol Burnett Show. Who's gonna crack up at Tim Conway's antics now, eh?

You all seem to be doing fine without me. I'll get back on the blog-go-round soon. Stay cool (and avoid tornadoes), my friends.

Lord knows, at least I was there, and I'm here.

Crossing bridges

I live in a city of bridges. Tunnels, too, but I rarely use them, as they mostly lead to New Jersey. Anyway. I live in a city of marvelous bridges. The Verrazano-Narrows is simply incredible, spanning two bits of land once deemed unspannable. I travel the Triborough Bridge more than any other, as it leads to my home-away-from-home, La Guardia Airport. Of course, Simon and Garfunkle made the Queensborough Bridge (aka, 59th Street Bridge) famous with "Feelin' Groovy" (the 59th Street Bridge song).

And then there's the BMW. That's how I remember the order of the three bridges connecting Manhattan to Brooklyn: Brooklyn, Manhattan, Williamsburg.

Yesterday, I took a late afternoon stroll across two of the bridges. Well, it wasn't exactly a "stroll" over the Brooklyn Bridge. The old beauty is celebrating her 125th birthday this week, and the walkway to Brooklyn was absolutely packed with people. It's usually bustling, but yesterday it was uncomfortably crowded. I was glad to exit at the other end and meander down to the riverside park (also crowded) to view the 8th Wonder of the World from below. As always, spectacular. Solid. Gothically beautiful. With the most breathtaking background in the world, the skyline of Lower Manhattan.

Still, I was seeking peace and quiet and the old Brooklyn Bridge wasn't the place to be on her birthday. So, why not try a different bridge? Why not indulge in a little adventure? I cast my eyes a few blocks north and headed for the Manhattan Bridge.

Aaahhhh. I had the thing pretty much to myself. I took my time heading back to Manhattan over the bridge, stopping now and then to take a picture or two - incredible views of the Brooklyn Bridge and Lower Manhattan - as the sun was lowering over the City. Not even the subways trains crossing the bridge to my right disturbed me. It was a beautiful, clear evening, and I was oh, so thankful to have the place to myself.

At the end of the bridge, I was thrown onto Chinatown's Canal Street. Meandering through the less-traveled warrens north of Canal, I lucked upon Little Italy (tiny, as Chinatown has pretty much taken over the Italian sector) and a street fair. Lots of twinkly lights and sausage-and-pepper rolls. The smells! Yum!

I could have grabbed the subway there, but I was still in the mood to walk. One great thing about New York is that you can walk for miles, iconic images at every turn, until before you know it, you've gone 'way farther than you intended.

This happened to me last evening. I just kept walking. It was a gorgeous night, the streets were crowded (as always), and the energy palpable. It wasn't long before I was near NYU/Washington Square. I grabbed a burger at a diner, dropped into Cold Stone for a small strawberry ice cream, and headed for Union Square. Crossing all sorts of "bridges" along the way.

It was late and time to cross the bridge to Spanish Harlem. I didn't realize how physically tired I was until I took a seat on the #6 train. I'd walked long and hard, but it was worth it.

Crossing bridges can certainly clear the mind. I highly recommend it.

I need a little Christmas

Most years, I don't feel the need to get my Christmas "goose" until late July or August, but with a hectic schedule and priorities a-whack, I'm going to indulge in Christmas right now. Not the presents or all the hurly-burly, though I do enjoy both during December. No, not that part. Just my own personal Christmas Film Festival, cinnamon tea, and a frigid apartment caused not by snow outside, but by cranking up the a/c until the windows frost over. Brrrrrr!

Sometimes I need to be reminded of the big picture, the span of time. Lately, I've been buried too deep in the details of Now. That is a ponderous way to live. So I hereby raise my cuppa cinnamon tea, resolving to let Ebenezer Scrooge and George Bailey and Cindy Lou Who pull me out of the muck.

And once I've regained my vision, I shall take a walk over the Brooklyn bridge at sunset this evening, for perspective can be gained through other means besides Christmas classics. I do believe that all the silly fluff inside my head right now won't take up so much brain-space after that.

So I will celebrate Memorial Day by celebrating the Christmas spirit. For as Old Scrooge said, "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. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach."

Happy Memorial Day. Merry Christmas.

Catchin' up

When last you heard from me, the tulips were a-poppin' in Central Park (they're pretty much gone now), I'd never been to Syracuse (not that I sat around troubling myself about it), and George Bush was president (oh, wait - he still is president). I am still here, too, just completely buried in work. Blogging, alas, has had to sink to the bottom of the "to-do" pile. (Thanks for missing me, Winston!)

I do find time to walk Bailey in the Park (that's how I know the tulips are almost gone). And I did go to Syracuse for a conference over the weekend. The New York finger lakes district is really beautiful. I stayed with a friend who has a house (built in 1872) on one of the lakes, which was much better than having to park at the local Holiday Inn, I tell you.

Other than that, I'm all-work-all-the-time right now. I hope that things ease up a bit once the June 5-8 conference is over. For me, it's the "Little Red Hen Conference," after the fable of the little red hen who did all the work planting, tending, and picking the corn, though she had all sorts of volunteers to eat it. I'm the little red hen on this. But as far as I'm concerned, everyone's welcome to eat all they want, as long as they don't bitch and moan about anything. The time for "advice" passed about three weeks ago.

I'm taking Friday off so that I can have a 4-day weekend before the onslaught. It really is time to break out the seasonal clothing and put away the wool. That should help, right?

Bouquets for All Mamas

Happy Mother's Day!

(Flowers courtesy Central Park Conservatory Gardens.)

"Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye?"

When I was about eight years old, I decided to run away from home. I'd suffered some great injustice at the hands of my mother and felt I had no other choice but to leave the Frazier family far behind. I don't remember what it was that caused me to start packing my bags, but it the straw that broke this little 8-year-old camel's back. I was outta there!

I sulked and plotted and devised a completely ingenious plan to just walk away and start a new life. Maybe a family with no children who really wanted a smart-ass little 8-year-old girl. (Yeah, right.) Throughout the afternoon, I flounced in to announce my plans to Mother so that she could start being real sorry even before I left. Being a natural-born drama queen, I could do no less.

After gathering my meager but necessary belongings, I was set to bid adieu to hearth and home. I could do so much better, right? And anyway, Mother obviously had it in for me. I needed to find a new mother who would appreciate me and my creative little ways. Yep. I was ready to go.

Mother was washing dishes when I lugged my sack - yes, it was a sack, not a suitcase - of assorted life possessions into the kitchen. The moment was fraught with emotion.

"Well, I'm going now," I announced in my best, kid-full-of-confidence voice.

Mother - who'd put up my tirade all afternoon - turned to look at me with big sad eyes, took the slightest pause, then said, "Aren't you going to kiss me good-bye?'

Well, that did it. Kid-confidence turned to kid-puddle-o'-tears as I dropped my sack of belongings. Mother wiped the water and suds off her hands and bent down to give me a hug.

"Welcome home." And I was back in the fold.

Down 3

Woo-hoo! I thought for sure I'd gained a pound or two over the past couple of weeks, but at my WeightWatchers weigh-in today, I'd actually lost 3 pounds! Yea, me!

Only a few ounces to go before I reach my 10% body-weight goal. Then, on to my personal 25-pound goal.

(And thanks for the pep-talk, Jo.)

O fractious day! Callooh! Callay!

It wasn't a frabjous day. Nor was it brillig with slithy toves gyring and gimbling. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, get thee swiftly to a copy of "Jabberwocky.")

No, it was a fractious day. Ever have one o' dem? I just woke up lookin' for a fight. Why is that, I wonder?

Fortunately for me (and my job), I realized early on that I was going to be a sarcastic, irritated, impatient smart-ass all day, so I hid in my office and tried to avoid all human contact. Pretty hard when one works at the headquarters of religious denomination. I tried asking myself, "What would Jesus do?," but I think he'd a-been fractious, too.

The good news is that I didn't slap anyone or send out a bunch of pithy emails. No, I truly behaved myself. I knew I was dangerous and took the proper steps to contain my (potentially) dangerous behavior.

Now I'm home, having weathered the fractiousness of the day. The gin and tonic's helping, I can testify. Cheers!

Happy 25th, Baby Girl!

You're the joy of my life!

The picture at Kate's baptism has special significance this year,

since the priest who baptized her in 1983 will also officiate at her wedding in October. Thanks, Harry!

Friday Night at the Red Food Store

I dreamed about the Red Food Store the other night. The one on Ringgold Road in Chattanooga, Tennessee. It was a weird dream that featured the old familiar store with two identical Red Food Stores surrounding it. I was a little discombobulated when I woke up, as you often are when some place or person from the past suddenly pops up in the clouds of night for no discernable reason.

The Red Food Store. It didn’t sell red food. Well, I reckon it did, but it sold all the other colors, too. And it wasn’t painted red, either. In short, no clue as to why the grocery chain was called Red Food Store, but there you are.

Anyway, Friday evenings after supper, Daddy would head out to do the weekly grocery shopping, usually with one or two or all four of us chir'run in tow. See, Mother raised us to believe that going to the grocery store was a man’s job, like taking out the garbage and tinkering with cars. Daddy always seemed to enjoy doing this weekly chore, and I suppose Mother hated it, so the system worked well for them. (And wasn’t Mother clever, eh?)

So. Off we’d go on Friday evening with Daddy, wondering what little goodie we could talk him into buying. He could be a real pushover, as long as we didn’t go overboard. Fritos. Sprite. Some new-fangled cereal. And it was primo Daddy-time. He always seemed to be in high spirits – it was Friday, after all! – and we loved going with him. To the Red Food Store.

All those grocery store trips run in together, except for one. It was Friday. November 22, 1963. We got out of school early that day; once the news came that President Kennedy had been shot, well, that was that. We spent the afternoon in front of the TV set, watching the strange events unfold. I don’t remember whether Daddy came home early or not. My parents were no fans of Kennedy, but this event rocked even them.

Still, dead presidents are no excuse to break a cherished routine, I guess, and Friday night meant a trip to the Red Food Store. Maybe Mother and Daddy thought that doing something completely normal would keep us from being scared. Or maybe we just needed milk. But whatever the reason we headed for the store, as usual, on that bleak evening.

Very few people were out and about. The store was open, but empty. Everything seemed dark (well, yeah, it was late November, but even so . . .) and moving in slow motion. I can tell you that not much high-spirited stuff went on during that shopping foray. We were just going through the motions at the Red Food Store that night.

But one aberration doesn’t dampen the memory of all the other Friday nights, all the other jaunts to the Red Food Store on Ringgold Road in Chattanooga, Tennessee, with Daddy and the little Fraziers picking up the week’s necessities while choosing a few special treats.

And I’m remembering all that, as I sit here in New York City on a Friday evening, thanks to a strange little dream. (Though I do wonder about the meaning of the extra stores.)

Bookstore Etiquette

Bookstores require the same quiet reverence as a library or hospital. Alas, today's book-buyers are evidently ignorant of true bookstore etiquette, so let's create a list for them, shall we?

1. Be quiet. Speak softly. Folks are making big decisions here, decisions that may change their lives in incalculable ways. That's what books do. Show some dignity and respect. Keep the rumpus in the children's section, where the wild things are.


2. No cellphone conversations. No cellphone ringing. In short, nothing that causes you to speak incredibly and offensively loud, or buzzes, chirps, or plays music you think is cool but the rest of us thinks is just pathetic.


3. Parents must refrain from loud, blow-by-blow descriptions of their children's antics and silly, show-offy questions with the sole purpose of exhibiting the little darlings' intelligence levels. No one is amused. No one cares if your kid can name the planets or balance three books on his/her head.


4. Patrons should be aware of other book-browsers on the aisle with them. Don't hog one area, or lounge against a shelf while you wait for your girlfriend to finish cruising the fitness books three rows over.


5. If you must walk between a patron and a shelf she/he is browsing, say "Excuse me."


6. If you pull a book off a shelf, please replace it exactly where you got it.


7. Make sure your hands are clean. Don't leave any schmutz on a book. "You schmutz it, you buy it."


8. No protests within 100 yards of a bookstore. (There was a noisy protest outside of Barnes & Noble on Lex/86th today. Something about Staples, which is next door to B&N, killing puppies. I can't figure out how an office supply store kills puppies, but the cause lost my support the instant the protesters interrupted my quiet bookstore time.)


9. Don't put your Starbucks double-latte-Italiano-frothy-wonder-mocha cup on a stack of sale-table books. You shouldn't even have that stuff anywhere near the books. Stick to the cafe area.


10. Be sweet. (OK, this isn't just about bookstores; this is about life in general.)


11. If you have gas, please be kind enough to step outside until it passes.


12. Turn down your iPod. Nobody wants to hear that tinny earphone noise when they're browsing.
13. Do NOT proffer unwanted criticism of each and every book other patrons are holding to browse through.
14. Do NOT hold books upside down while loudly proclaiming "I'm Australian". Yes, this has actually happened to me.
15. Do not smoke in the bookstore.
    

Anything to add? (Thanks Anon and Jo and Stu for the additions - in red.)

Getting There Early to FutureThink

Seems all I've been doing lately is exploring future trends and what that means for the Episcopal Church specifically and my life generally.

During that ill-fated, luggage-losing trip to St. Louis in February, I sat through a two-part workshop presented by the Palo Alto think-tank, Institute For The Future. (Sounds kinda scary, doesn't it?) IFTF had been called in to study the Church and how we might address stuff now by knowing what's on the horizon. The group developed a road map for the future kind-of-thing based on Bob Johansen's book, Get There Early. Most of the trends, called "dilemmas" in the book, aren't surprising (personal technology, health care, young vs. old) but how those trends might play out - lots of very interesting scenarios - are surprising, or at least, surprising enough to make me think, "Hmmmm." It's all about change and being aware of these dilemmas, even if we're not sure of how to address them.

I spent most of Thursday in a seminar presented by Edie Weiner, co-author of a book called FutureThink. Again, we looked at trends for the future in different ways. One of my favorite Weiner concepts is that of "educated incapacity," which I run up against (and am guilty of) all the time. Sometimes you know so much about something, have so much experience, that you can't get outside of that to see what's on the horizon and how things are changing. It's about looking at things through the eyes of an alien from Mars. (Gin would help, I think!)

The new life-span metric is a major theme in both books. One lesson I came away with was, hey, it's no biggie if your kid doesn't graduate college at 22. Said kid will live to 90-100+. Plenty of time to pick up that sheepskin later on. Shoot, as long as the kid moves out of the house by the time they're 22, he/she can spend a decade (or two) being a ski instructor or tramping through Europe. (Again, as long as I'm not paying for it . . . )

And it is true - we are not the same 50-year-olds our grandparents were. We are healthier. We have our own teeth. (Thanks, Crest.) We aren't thinking of retirement as a rocking chair and a porch, though that sounds mighty nice, some days. Either we can't retire for financial reasons, or we use retirement to launch yet another career. Since we're all in the middle of it, it's hard to see all the ways this extended life-span thing impacts the old ways of doing things.

Anyway, as thought-provoking as all this future-change-prepare stuff is, it doesn't go anywhere if we aren't given a forum to discuss, research, dream about what's happening and how we creatively address our dilemmas on a regular basis. We need to flesh it out constantly to stay on top of things. It doesn't sound very churchy, does it? (Only because I'm not couching it in churchy terms - but I can if you want me to.) So, we'll see if our powers-that-be institute a way of fleshing this out, or if we just move on and continue down the road stuck in our old routines.

As for me, I see lunch in my immediate future. Beyond that, well, I do not know.

Book Desert

OK, it's that time again. I've finished every ripping yarn in the house - er, teeny-tiny apartment - and am looking to you, dear bloggers, to suggest new reading material.

I thought I had a couple of good 'uns tucked away, but, alas, no. I've looked through every shelf - even at the back of the double-shelved ones. Sigh. Nada. I read the ones Virginia sent a few weeks ago (thanks!) and finished up The Meaning of Night on Sunday. My apartment is a desert as far as unread fabulous books are concerned.

There is one non-fiction, work-assigned book that I'm plowing through in the evenings (we have a workshop with the author on Thursday), but it's not good for bedtime reading. So, what'd'ya suggest? I think I read all of your suggestions last time. (Again, thanks.)

The Book Suggestion List is now open. Book and author, please. I trust you.

Birthday Pox

Not many people remember the exact date they got chicken pox as a kid, but I do. It was April 21, 1957, my 6th birthday.

In my little-girl birthday excitement, I didn't even notice that I was covered with spots or that I was unusually itchy that morning as I got ready for kindergarten. In fact, I was in rather high spirits when I got to the breakfast table and Brother David said, "Hey! What happened to you?" Not understanding what he was talking about, I shrugged and said, "I fell down." He wasn't buying it, since being covered in red spots has never been much of a result of falling down.

All that fuss caught the attention of Mother, who made the diagnosis (and it wasn't "falling down"): chicken pox! Off to bed!

I whined. I begged. I felt fine, said I. After all, everyone at kindergarten made a big fuss over you on your birthday and I didn't want to miss it. I was ready to be Queen for a Day! And what about the big birthday party planned for later that afternoon? No! I was fine! Chicken pox, scmicken pox.

Well, despite my well-reasoned excuses, I was marched off to bed. No "Kindergarten Queen for a Day" for this 6-year-old. I was not a happy camper. My mother, however, had an idea about the afternoon birthday party. She got on the phone and called all the party attendees' moms with the message that little Mary has chicken pox but feels fine. The party will go on, so send your child if you like.

Well, most all the moms "liked." Either their children had had chicken pox or they wanted them to get the pox before heading off to "Big School." I think every child invited came to the party that afternoon. Fancy dresses, cake and ice cream, presents, games - all went off per the pre-chicken pox plans. I had as much fun as everyone else; I was just covered in red spots. Very festive. No telling how many instances of childhood disease I spawned on April 21, 1957.

But every birthday morning I check in the mirror to check for red spots before going forth. This morning? Well, no spots, but not the face of a 6-year-old, either.

The smell of daffodils

Memory and smell are twisted together in funny ways, don't you think?

We lived in the small Georgia town of Perry when I was four years old. I think we lived there less than a year, though to my 4-year-old mind it seemed longer. Funny, but I have many distinct(though possibly faulty - I was only four, after all) memories of our time in Perry, Georgia. For example, my infamous tricycle ride to town and my subsequent run-in with the law over that little escapade.

The smell of daffodils recalls another Perry memory. It was early spring. The family piled into the old green Chevy station wagon and headed out to Mr. Cotton's place. Mr. Cotton, Daddy's boss, had a big old house and some land outside of Perry proper. When we arrived at Cotton's on that spring day, we were treated to a wondrous site: a big field of bright yellow daffodils. Daffodils, daffodils, daffodils - all spread out before us.

Ah, but things got even better. The grown-ups let us loose on that wide yellow carpet to pick as many daffodils as we wanted. Can you imagine anything better than that? Human beings are never given permission to pick flowers; maybe one or two here and there, but never as many as we want. Usually just the opposite, in fact: "Do Not Pick The Flowers!" But that one time, that one spring day, we were told to go forth and pick to our hearts' content.

Well, it was a big field, and even four active children picking everything in sight didn't make much of a dent in the daffodil-carpet. Armloads of flowers, the musky scent of the yellow blossoms, the joy of getting to do the usually-forbidden - well, it was a memorable experience.

Now, I might have the story wrong. Maybe it wasn't Mr. Cotton's place. Maybe the field wasn't that big. Maybe we were told we could pick no more than 5 or 10 flowers. I'm sure Big Bro - who is much, much older than I - will correct me.

But I know it was daffodils, because every time I get a whiff as I pass a flower stand or sit next to a big bowl of them, I'm four years old and picking all the daffodils I want.

I'm not lost. I'm just in Seattle.

At a conference. I was whisked away amidst the big fruit-basket-turnover office move in New York, so I guess I'm missing all the "fun" there. Haven't seen much of Seattle, though I can see the Space Needle from my hotel window. How cool is that? And we had a reception/dinner at the Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture last night. The exhibits on various Pacific cultures was particularly interesting - all those Maori markings and island masks.

With the exception of the pleasant NYC break with Lil Sis last week (Was is just last week? Seems like a month ago.), it's been all work, work, work. My plate is overflowing, but I'm slowly consuming or tossing whatever's there.

Liz! I dreamed about you last night. How weird is that? You were singing Welsh songs, and we were on a train. Hmm.

The news of the world is passing me by, which I suspect is not a bad thing. I'm pretty much fed up with things economically, politically, and socially. Anyone else tired of hearing the blah-blah-blah of newscasters and politicians? I'm in deep news-fatigue, I suppose. The only remedy is a good book or Turner Classic Movies 24/7. Wake me when it's over.

Another observation - it's hard to stay on my WeightWatchers regime when I travel. I watch my food portions, but airports and conferences just don't cater to the anti-junkfood crowd. Sigh.

My mantra for the day: "Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana." (Groucho Marx)

What we've done so far . . .

Lil Sis is here in New York, so I'm on full-blown tour-guide duty. Here's what's happened so far:

A fine dinner at Cornelia Street Cafe in the Village, followed by an evening's walk to the #6 subway via Washington Square.

Lower Manhattan and the Wall Street bull.

A visit to the US Customs House and St. Paul's Chapel, with a view toward the World Trade Center site.

A ride on the Staten Island Ferry, a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, and a real live New York Pizza at Patsy's (at the original at 117th and 1st).

Today: the Met, Central Park, and wherever our feet and the subway take us. Tonight: "A Catered Affair," a new Broadway musical.

Spring Cleaning

It hit me first thing yesterday morning, that urge to have a good clean-out. The "toothpick cleaning" urge doesn't strike very often, so I have to take full advantage of it when it does. By "toothpick cleaning" I mean the anal-retentive type that is so nit-picky that I break out toothpicks to clean all the little crevices in the kitchen, bathroom, and anywhere else little crevices tend to lurk.

I went crazy - totally rearranged my bedroom, as well as my book shelves (no, I didn't order the books by color). I went though I-don't-know-how-many Swiffer wipes (Bailey's a big, furry, shedding dog, doncha' know), paper towels and Windex, and polishing cloths. I even climbed out onto the fire escape to clean the outside part of the arch at the tops of my windows. Wow!

There's still major work to do in the kitchen and bathroom - when I say major, you must keep in mind the teeny size of both. And you can't really call what I have a kitchen, either. Anyway, not much more to go, and I'm feeling quite pleased with myself.

I love seeing my little apartment through new, spring-clean eyes. Since the past few weeks have been so chaotic and emotional at work, having my personal space clean and organized tamps down the other craziness and reminds me that I can control at least a bit of order in my own little rooms.

Plus, Lil Sis arrives Tuesday afternoon for a few days' visit, so I have an immediate reason to spring-clean. Here's hoping the cleaning-bug sticks with me a couple more days. Not only must I finish up here, I have to pack up my office tomorrow and Tuesday for a big move to 5th floor, as well.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few more Swiffer wipes to kill.

A Canterbury Tale

News came down today from the powers-that-be that I have been tapped to attend the Lambeth Conference in July. For those non-Anglicans out there, every 10 years the Archbishop of Canterbury summons all the bishops of the Anglican Communion to England to, well, I don't know - eat, drink, and get to know each other.

Lambeth Conference isn't actually held at Lambeth Palace in London - the place is too small, apparently. So all the hub-bub takes place in Canterbury at University of Kent and that great whackin' cathedral. I haven't been to Canterbury since my first trip to England in 1971, so I'm really looking forward to it. I'm honored to be chosen. Very exciting stuff!

Lest you think I've been elevated to purple-shirt wearin' level (er, no), my assignment is to staff the Episcopal Church exhibit in the marketplace area. I suspect my main duty will be to dispense information and be adorably gracious. As only a Southern woman can be. Meet, greet, be sweet.

Oh, and a warning for Jo, Pete, Chris, Chux, et. al.: Get yerselves ready, pals! I hope to find a few days before or after my Canterbury pilgrimage to bother you. A meal and drinkies? What's on at Ottershaw Players in July?

Now where'd I put my Wife of Bath outfit?

The Incredible Shrinking Woman

OK. That's a slight exaggeration, but after 9 weeks, I've dropped 12.6 pounds. Not quite a stone, Jo, but I'm getting there.

I hesitate to mention this, since I figure it's the kiss o' death, and I'll start packin' on the pounds again. Fingers crossed, I can stick with it. My clothes sure are fitting a lot better, I tell you.

Now, go find something that weighs 12+ pounds and pick it up. Yep. That's how much dead-weight I've shed since the end of January. Woo-hoo!

Welcome, Happy Morning!

It was a glorious Easter service at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. I managed to get a pretty good seat, despite the crowds, and just soaked up the music and liturgy. Music was definitely the high point – the choir, the organ, and the two artists-in-residence, Paul Winter and Judy Collins.

Winter’s clarinet solos were warm and rich. The warm part was much-needed, as the temperature inside the cathedral was about 10 degrees cooler than the 30 degrees outside. Brrrr. Judy Collins looked a little frail, but her voice was strong as ever. She sang a solo, then lead us all in singing “Amazing Grace.” Yet another thing I can add to my resume: “Have sung ‘Amazing Grace’ with Judy Collins.”

The only down-side (beside the temperature of the cathedral) was all the incense. Sheesh! Just when the smoke would clear, the guy with the smokin’ purse would swing more my way. Cough-cough. I’m just not a bells-and-smells person, and I don’t come from a bells-and-smells parish. But my walk home after the service cleared all the incense out of my hair, clothes, and lungs.

It was more of a concert than a worship experience for me. I need my Atlanta family around me for that, at least at Easter and Christmas. But I’m very glad I rolled out of bed and made my way over the Cathedral this cold Easter morning.

Top 10 Bunny Countdown

To all the bunnies, rabbits, and hares out there that have made us laugh, cry, worry, fear: this one's for you. The countdown:

10. Bunny (Lake). Is missing. Carol Lynley is frantic and Laurence Olivier thinks she made up the whole thing. He was wrong. Great Otto Preminger film, by the way.

9. Hazel, our hero from Watership Down. We love Fiver, too (but not General Woundwort).

8. Rabbit (Angstrom) from the John Updike novel, Rabbit, Run (1960). And Rabbit Redux, etc.

7. Peter (Rabbit). Not to be confused with Peter Cottontail. This Peter is the invention of good ol' Beatrix Potter. He was naughty and not very bright. But he drove Mr. MacGregor ca-razy.

6. White (Rabbit)/March (Hare). These hallucinogenic bunnies from Alice in Wonderland are a) in a big hurry and b) mad. The big distinction, however, is that White Rabbit enjoyed fame as a Jefferson Airplane song, as well. Bet that drove March even madder.

5. Killer Rabbit (of Caerbannog). From Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Thank goodness for the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch.

4. Bugs (Bunny). I have a thing for sarcastic, dress-wearin', opera singin' wascally wabbits, don't you?

3. Brer (Rabbit). He loved his briar patch, but not that ol' tar baby. Thank you, Joel Chandler Harris.

2. Velveteen (Rabbit). Or how toys become real. Or how to make a grown man (or woman) cry. Boy, I love this book by Margery Williams.

1. Easter (Bunny). This is a blatant attempt to curry favor with the big furry guy, as he decides who to leave nice chocolate eggs for tonight while I'm fast asleep. If you're reading this, EasterB., I like all kinds of chocolate, jellybeans, and Peeps. And I've been a good girl all year. No. Wait. That's my story for Santa.

Yeah, I left off Roger, Flopsy/Mopsy/and Cottontail, and the boiling bunny from Fatal Attraction. They would've definitely made my Top 20 Countdown. Notice no mention of the Playboy kind of bunny.

Now bring on the chocolate, EasterB. Happy Easter, all!

Good Friday 2008: St. Bart's

One benefit of working for the church is that Good Friday and Easter Monday are holidays for us. So, yeah, I have four lovely days stretched out before me.

Lest I forget why I have those holidays, I opted to attend Good Friday services at St. Bartholomew's in midtown, since it offered the noon-3 service I'm used to at home. It was moving and beautiful. It's not Good Friday without the music - "Were You There?," "Ah holy Jesus, how hast thou offended?," and "Beneath the cross of Jesus." After the week I've had, it gave me a chance to settle down, pray, cry, and sing. Mozart's "Ave verum corpus" never fails to bring me to tears, and it didn't fail today.

Believe it or not, I'd never set foot in St. Bart's until today. I pass it all the time, of course, since I work in the 'hood. It's a big old beautiful Byzantine number - odd architecture for an Episcopal Church, but no complaints from here - all dark and tiley/stoney inside. They could do with some new pew cushions, though, I tell ya'. Mine was held together with duct tape, and it had next to no stuffing left. I believe if each St. Bart's family could "Adopt-a-Pew," and personally take care of the oiling, tightening, and cushioning of their adoptee, I b'lieve they could get the job done in no time. Or maybe it's cool to have patched-up-with-duct-tape cushions at such a toney house of worship.

Anyway, that's a minor complaint. It was a wonderful place of rest and refuge for me on this Good Friday. As for Easter, well, my plan (note: plan) is to go to The Cathedral (of St. John the Divine), since it's only a 15-20-minute walk from where I live. They'll pull out all the stops (literally) with the Bishop and choirs and artists-in-residence like Judy Collins and Paul Winter, so I'm thinkin' I need to experience Easter with the big boys (and girls) at least once.

Or, I'll sleep in. We'll see.

A blessed Good Friday to all. (And Liz, only 2 more days in Lent! I've stocked up on some primo chocolate for Sunday.)

Middle Child Syndrome can turn on you

I like things peaceful. I do not like conflict. I like for everyone to play nice. I do not like to upset people.

Now, I've been told that these are classic "middle child" characteristics, though, truth be told, I was a darn rowdy middle child. And damned proud of it. In fact both of us middle children - older bro David (God rest his soul) and me, the middle two of four - seemed to cause the most ruckus growing up. Be that as it may, while I like a good set-to now and then, I want it to be a friendly, fun set-to, nothing fraught with bad ju-ju.

Alas, this morning my middle child fears were realized here at work. As previously mentioned, we are in the throes of reorganization, and while the official line is that we are to keep doing our current jobs until April 1 and under no circumstances work on "new job" tasks, the fact is that I've been called upon several times in the past couple of months to "work ahead." This at the behest of the Powers-That-Be. Who am I to refuse, eh?

I've diligently done my current job throughout it all, while taking the new stuff home to work on at night or on weekends. Just to keep the peace. So, yeah, I've been working both ends of the system and burning the candle at both ends for quite a few weeks. I've done it because my current boss is not taking this reorganization thing very well. She's very, very touchy about it. So in my best middle child way, I've tiptoed around her and tried to keep any upper-level requests of me out of her sight range.

Bad move on my part.

She found out about one project from a 3rd party (and yeah, I should have told her, maybe, instead of trying to keep the peace), came into my office, closed the door, and went ballistic.

I really had no defense, except that my new bosses (and hers) had gone around her to pull me into these projects. That much was painfully obvious, of course, but I certainly didn't point it out to her. Yes, she has been demoted and somewhat sidelined in the new scheme of things, and she hasn't dealt with it very well (*understatement*). The fact that I didn't get (or need) her permission to do this stuff came across as salt in the wounds. Ouch. The term "back stabber" came out a couple of times.

I was in agony. I love and respect this woman, but I am angry with her at the way she's handled the changes that are taking place (yeah, my problem , I know). I want her to rise to the occasion, and she hasn't. And it's been going on for about 6 months. We're all tired. And frayed. I close my office door and turn up the tunes, or go to lunch with happy, positive friends to avoid dealing with the angst. It makes me sad. That conflict-thing, doncha' know. Ugh. I was crushed by the tongue-lashing. Still. I guess in an effort not to stab her in the back, I stabbed her in the back.

We settle into our new offices in a couple of weeks. Things should calm down then. At least I won't be in her sight-line, though I think we will be working in close proximity.

This "serving two masters" is a tricky thing for a middle kid. Growing up, we could've settled this with a good old fashioned pine cone battle. Sigh. Gin and tonics all round tonight, me thinks.

Tea beside the fire: Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Don the green, have a Guinness, and throw Darby O'Gill and the Little People into your DVD player - it's St. Patrick's Day!

New York is home to the biggest St. Patrick's Day parade in the world (no surprise, there), but due to a couple of ill-timed meetings today, I won't be able to sneak out and witness it. Maybe next year. Last year, I was in Africa, remember?

Enjoy the day! I leave you with this Irish blessing:

"May you always have walls for the winds,
A roof for the rain, tea beside the fire,
Laughter to cheer you, those you love near you,
And all your heart might desire."

Mmmmm. Tea beside the fire.

Of Palms, cranes, tornadoes. And a right good potato knish.

Pretty wild couple of days, eh? Tornadoes rip through downtown Atlanta. A whackin’ great construction cranes crashes to earth just a few blocks from where I work. And we’re heading into Holy Week. Is it that time of year already?

As far as I know, Atlanta family and friends made it though the whirlwinds just fine. At least, I know for a fact that Kate did. Haven’t heard from anyone else, but as they say, no news is good news. Good luck with the clean-up down there, guys. Downtown looks a real mess.

I spent yesterday boppin’ around the Lower East Side. Those poor folks in the tenements of old would be surprised at the rise in property values down there. Lots of cute, trendy shops and restaurants. I poked my head into Katz Deli – of When Harry Met Sally fame (you know The Scene) – but it was crowded and over-priced, so I poked my head back out and headed for a little hole in the wall shop called Yonah Schimmel’s Knishes to get in touch with my Jewish side. I mean that figuratively, since I don’t have a legitimate Jewish side (as far as I know). Old Yonah Schimmel’s was comfortingly crowded as well, but I found a spot at a back table and had a lovely knish and a cup of borscht. Yum. Good stuff.

Well, seems that while I was happily strolling around the LES and knishing, a huge construction crane was crashing down into buildings a few blocks from where I work on Second Avenue. I didn’t find out about that until I got home. Can’t imagine the damage if it had happened on a typical work day. Yikes! Four dead, several very serious injuries, and three missing.

A joyous, holy Palm Sunday to all. To me, the lesson of Palm Sunday is, man, how quickly a crowd can turn. One day, it’s all palms and Hosannas; then just a few days later, it’s Crucify! A good study in mob mentality, me thinks, through no one really preaches much about that. Still, a good lesson to keep in mind when folks are waving palms your way.

In spite of all the weekend wildness, it went by 'way too fast. Sigh.

"I can help the following customer"

Can that be right? Shouldn't it be, "I can help the next customer"?

Almost every customer service person in New York uses the word "following" to give the heads-up to the next person in line at the bank, deli, or Duane Reade. Every time I hear it, it grates on my nerves. Is it because I'm not used to that particular use of the word "following," or is it indeed wrong?

Though sometimes my posts don't reflect it, I do have a pretty good command of English grammar usage. Can someone let me know if I'm just being petty and that "I can help the following customer" is completely oakie-dokie? Or not.

Catching Up is Hard to Do

It's even harder than breaking up (tip o' the hat to Neil Sedaka).

Gee, where to start? How about the Cliffs Notes version:

Landed in Atlanta last Thursday and headed straight for The Colonnade for real fried chicken and collard greens. Yum!

Taste-tested various wedding cake flavors at three different wedding cake bakers. Lots of buttercream frosting, as well. For more about that experience, feel free to visit The MoBster Diaries.

More food indulgences, including steak, Mexican food, and Japanese food. While the food was great, the family, friends, and conversations were even better.

Got to see my niece and her adorable kids, Bryleigh and Jaxon. Such cutie pies!

Survived the "spring ahead" time change, and managed to make it to church on time to preach (yeah, I know) at the 8am and 11:00am services. Plus teach a Sunday School class. A big "mwah!" to the good folks at St. Mark's, Dalton, Georgia.

Only gained .2 lb. after all those enchilladas, fried chicken, and buttercream chow-downs.

OK, that's the quickie version.

On a different note: how stupid is Eliot Spitzer? Geez Louise! It always hits hardest those preachers and politicians who rant and rave about morality and "right," eh? Once you set yourself up as Mr. Moral Crusader, you don't go out and pay incomprehensible sums to high-priced call girls. Seems like a no-brainer to me. And that's why I try to avoid politicians (and preachers) who arrogantly set themselves up as the new messiahs of this or that. I feel extra sorry for his wife and daughters, though. Sheeesh!

OK. I think I'm sorta caught up now.

Celebrating a decade lost

Ten pounds. Finally. I've lost about half the weight of our typical Thanksgiving turkey. Jeans fit better. Blouses aren't so tight.

I'll try to maintain that progress as I travel to Atlanta today, but a couple of things are working against me regarding any hopes of weekend weight loss. For one, I fully intend to chow down on real fried chicken at The Colonnade. Portion sizes be damned. I'm going whole hog - chicken - on this one. New Yorkers are good at lots of things, but fried chicken ain't one of 'em. Not even Sylvia's in Harlem. So. Fried chicken is on the list - that's about 980 points, I reckon.

For two, Kate and I have a couple of appointments with wedding cake bakers tomorrow. It is my bounden duty as soon-to-be Mother of the Bride to test everything put before me. What kind of person would I be if I didn't make sure that our wedding guests have the most fabulous confection of buttery cake and gooey icing placed before them on The Day? The only thing I won't be able to test is anything involving chocolate, since I made a solemn pact with God and Liz about chocolate and Lent (a couple more weeks to go on that one). Wedding cakes? Bring 'em on!

Perhaps I can take off Monday and spend the day on a treadmill. Hm.

Blah-ging

Yawn. I'm in a blog slump. This happens to me when real life (vs. cyber-life) is swirling too fast for me to step back and reflect on it in any meaningful or humorous way.

I like using the blog to brain-dump whatever's niggling at me - from the profound (seldom) to the profane (yeah, that's it). But right now I'm wrapped up in the changes going on at work, and I don't have a lot of witty things to say about the experience. Well, OK, I do, but nothing I'd incrminate myself with by blogging about it.

Negotiating the workplace rapids has required my utmost attention. Lots of fine lines being walked, if you know what I mean. I love my job and look forward to the new organization. I'm just ready to get on with it. Alas, because a few other people aren't, everyone and everything around them gets sucked into a weirdly depressing vortex. I've been closing my office door and turning up the music to ward off the negative vibes.

Wow. This is already a "blahg." My blog-writing seems forced and uninteresting. If I'm bored with it, well, I can't imagine that everyone isn't bored, as well. I've been reduced to posting about borscht and pastrami. Please.

Maybe posting options will improve when I go to Atlanta and Dalton, Georgia, for the upcoming weekend. Believe it or not, I'm preaching - as in, standing in a pulpit and speaking - at St. Mark's Church, Dalton, on Sunday. That alone should be good for any number of chuckles next Monday, eh?

Till then, you have my permission to nod off . . .

Cold Borscht/Hot Pastrami

As much as I long for real, honest-to-goodness fried chicken and other delicacies of Southern cuisine, there are some fundamental New York eatin’s that I truly relish. Like cold borscht and hot pastrami sandwiches.

Last week I discovered Bloom’s Deli, corner of Lex and 40th, on my way to a doctor’s appointment. The beauty of living in a place where your feet are your main mode of transport is that you can make little sparkly findings like Bloom’s as you trudge from one place to the next. Anyway, after my appointment I nipped into the deli for lunch.
The day was cold, and so was the borsht. Cold and sweet and spicy and absolutely delicious. Craveably delicious. Tiny diced beets sat at the bottom of a sweet, thin broth. I passed on the sour cream dollop because, well, that just would’ve been gilding the lily, and needlessly wreck my diet. God bless the Lithuanian Jews for bringing this dish to Manhattan delis! Mmmmmm. I could become seriously addicted to the stuff.

So addicted, in fact, that when I came upon Bloom’s near the end of my midtown saunter yesterday, I had to go in for more. The borscht was excellent, of course. I expected nothing less. But I added a classic hot pastrami on rye to the mix. Hey. I’d been power-walking for an hour-and-a-half and needed nourishment.

Now, a New York sandwich is not built like a sandwich anywhere else. New York completely reverses the huge bun-little piece of meat version offered most places. New York sandwiches are mostly meat – 2 or 3 inches of meat – on regular-sized sliced bread (white, wheat, rye, pumpernickel, etc.). So my hot pastrami arrived stacked high. It was perfect. A little squirt of hot mustard made it more perfect. I had to take half the sandwich to-go, such was the size of the thing.

And did I mention the pickle bar? Another thing New Yorkers are proud of are their pickles. And rightfully so. A healthy variety spread before you – just take your pick. And lovely cole slaw (not the creamy, gooey kind).

Cold borscht. Hot pastrami. Pickles. Cole slaw. Hearty food for a late-winter’s day.