Ring-a-ding-ding

The Friday bell has rung. You may put your books away, grab your lunchbox, and head for home. Or elsewhere.

The only decision left to make: a glass of red, or a g&t?

Cheers, my little martini glasses!

(Look closely at the book cover. Something tells me there was no "www." when Cocktail Time was published. Hmm.)

Blogroll Clean-out Time

I've given my blog links the white-glove test, and they seem to be rather dusty.

So, it's blog clean-out time. I've been busy with the Pledge and feather duster, dumping the things I don't read much anymore or that don't speak to me right now and putting them in the trash.

Problem is, I need ideas for mo' fun blogs to freshen the list.

Referrals, anyone? Give me some new blog-reading material. Please.

Hot time in the old town

Because our building is completing a lengthy renovation process, the fire alarm goes off around here on a regular basis. The ear-piercing beeps are usually interrupted by a voice over the intercom telling us to ignore the alarm. (As if!)

But today, after 5 minutes of the alarm and an "ignore, please" announcement, a voice comes back over the intercom with "Leave the building! Leave the building!" OK. Will do. Anything's better than listening to the alarm run amok.

Tar-aroma'd smoke (not much) greeted us in the stairwell as we made our way to the ground floor and out the front door. The fire truck was already out front.

But here's the important news: I'm here to tell you that the reputation of good lookin' FDNY fire-fighters is not just some rumor. I mean, these were the cutest buncha guys I've seen since I hit NYC! Yowser!

They tromped into the building, checked out the situation (torch meets tar on roof, causing smoke, causing fire alarm, etc.), took care of it, and tromped back out.

But they sure were cuties! Just another day in the city.

Subway Karma

Wonder how the universe - or the Metropolitan Transportation Authority - pays back those guys/gals (and gender-unknowns) who stand inside the doorways of subway trains, refusing to move aside to let folks either in or out?

Does the universe summon up retribution for people so completely brain-dead that they can't figure out the simple physics of getting x-number of people at x-height/weight both leaving the train and entering the train through 3-foot sliding doorways? (Wait! I think I had that exact word problem in 4-grade arithmetic! Never thought it would come in handy, though.) Add to the problem the noodle-brained schmuck body-blocking a foot-and-a-half of that doorway, and well, I think the MTA gods would be completely justified in liquidating said drain sludge.

And if they don't come through, I'm sure my laptop-laden briefcase, strategically located around family-jewels height just might serve as subway karma. Then I just smile sweetly and say, Ooh! Sorry! and give a little helpless shrug as I leave the train. . .

Three generations of summer fun

Remember when you were little and loved summer so much that you didn't care how hot it got? Well, try to get back those good thoughts. I've found pictures that span three generations of children in my family enjoying the good ol' summertime.

Mother and Aunt Mildred (we called her "Noonie," though she spelled it "Nunnie," I think) in their fine May Day outfits. Mother looks, what?, 10-11 years old maybe? So it would be around 1926-27, I guess. Don't they look just tickled pink to be wearing such joyous little dresses?

Cousin Steve, me, sister Cindy on a summer's day in Grant Park, Atlanta (Cyclorama in the background, I believe). I'm thinking it must be around 1956, or so. Notice Steve and Cindy still have their cotton candy, and mine's all gone. Typical!

Awwww, I love this one. Nephew Mikey sharing his popsicle with my little Kate at the pool, 1984. These two have been so close since the git-go, and they still hang out together. But again, awwwww!

Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty . . .

And speaking of grits, Liz asked what, exactly, are grits, since I spent a post raving about them. Grits, my friends, are like sausage - in that you don't wanna know how they're made.

Most Southerners eat hominy grits . Hominy grits are made from regular old corn that's been soaked in - get this - lye water, for goodness' sake!, until the kernels swell up to more'n twice their size. These fat, lye-puffed corn kernels are dried and ground up into a sort of coarse meal-like substance that we in the South call - ta-da! - grits. Sure, you can buy organic stone-ground corn grits, but that takes some of the dangerous fun out of it.

Anyway, once you have your ground-up, dried-up, lyed-up corn girts, boil 'em up to whatever consistency you like - thick, runny, or something in between. Add butter, cheese, onion, jalepeno peppers - whatever floats your boat. (Here's a whole list of grits recipes, just in case you're interested.) A nice little cream of wheat-like breakfast dish, only not so wussy.

Grits - like 'em or lump 'em. I agree there's no accounting for taste (good or bad). I do love 'em, medium-runny with butter or with cheese and jalepenos. Yu-um!

Add sausage and you have a completely delicious but please-don't-tell-me-where-it-comes-from breakfast.

We're havin' a heat wave . . .

A tropical heat wave.

How are you staying cool? Is it what you put in your body? Or on/off your body? Is it mind over matter?

Here's one thing I do: pretend it's Christmas. That's right. Close the blinds, crank up the air-conditioner, light the cinnamon candles, whip up some cocoa, and shove White Christmas, A Christmas Carol (any iteration - you know me), Rudolph - whatever - into the DVD player. No presents or parties involved - just you and snow and Bing and cinnamon. Brrr!

Now you. Seems it's hot all over, and we need all the suggestions we can get.

Just hear those sleigh bells jing-a-ling . . .

Vengeance, Art, and Being Just Too Darn Young to Comment

Well, it's been a busy week, so I've been remiss in posting. I'll just throw out three unrelated topics, and see what happens.

Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face! (Or in this case, blowing up yourself and your home to spite an ex-spouse.) Last Monday, this doctor blew up his wonderful little building on East 60-something so his ex-wife couldn't get her hands on it. He killed himself in the process, which I'm sure was the plan, though he lingered for almost a week.

What a gift to UES developers! Land cleared - ready for an ugly high-rise of some kind, ex-wife (if she gets a cut of it) ready to sell for the big bucks - 'way bigger than the building's estimated worth pre-blow-up. Kinda have to wonder what the guy was thinking, given the circumstances. If he managed to tie up legal and financial details of insurance, etc., to ensure "no building = no money," then he surely went the extra mile and a half to keep the woman's hands off the dough. If not - and she manages to get a cut of the action - then he could've used a copy of vengeance for Dummies.

Big news - and big anger - here in NY about the Metropolitan Museum of Art increasing its suggested admission fee from $15 to $20 August 1. Is it worth it? Well, certainly the Met holds one of the most (if not the most) extensive collection in the world - a perfect one-stop-shop, if you will, of arts from every period. I'm sure the upkeep, etc., costs are enormous. Every little penny counts. But. I don't think that's the point. The point is that it's too darn expensive for regular Joes and Janes to frequent the place. Goodness, I'd be there every other day if I had the money to get into the place. The increase has caused much outrage, so much so that the term "suggested admission fee" is getting a lot of play. Did you know, ask many, that you don't have to pay $15 or $20 to get into the Met - the fee is "suggested." You can pay $2 or a dime, for that matter. Good to know. But I hear the ticket-takers at the Met are real snotty to anyone who does it. Still, they're required to accept what you offer and give you an admission button. So, I guess the dilemma is: shame vs. financial cost.

VH1 is currently airing "I Love the 70's Part 2," which always makes me wonder who puts these things together. These compilations often miss the real stuff that was going on at the time - or even the cult stuff - and make a big deal over things that, well, just weren't a big deal. I'm guessing 20- or 30-somethings are putting them together, and it shows.

The other thing that gets me is the folks they choose for commentary. While a few were certainly around in the 1970s (the pre-school years for most of 'em), some couldn't have possibly been old enough to remember fads, movies, etc. And yet, they don't say, "Well, my parents told me . . . " or "I saw Super Fly for the first time a year ago . . . " No, they all talk as if they were actually there and enjoying Studio 54 back in the day. It would be like me waxing nostalgic about "C'mon a My House," which came out the year I was born. It's just silly. Then again, I guess they don't want people who were actually there giving commentary, the old fogies. (OK, they do feature huge 1970s stars like Charo and Allison Arngrim . . . )

So, what we've learned here:

1. Don't go blowing yourself and your house up just for vengeance when there might be a better way to get back at an ex-whatever.
2. You don't have to pay $20 to get into the Metropolitan Museum of Art since that's just the suggested price, but you will have to be woman or man enough to take scorn from Met employees.
3. If you're going to make a big deal out of Billy Jack, "One Tin Soldier" should be playing in the background, not "Everybody was Kung-Fu Fighting."

Grits and Luzianne

As uptown and fun to live in as New York is, there are still a few things I miss about living in the South. With the exception of family and friends, of course, and good ol' All Saints' Church, most of my longings have to do with food.

Fried chicken, for example. Real fried chicken. I'm sure it's here somewhere - betcha' there's a good soul food restaurant or two in Harlem - but not in my 'hood. Grits, too. Hard to find (real grits, not the instant kind). And with the onset of heat and humidity, Luzianne tea bags for iced tea. Yeah, I know you can make iced tea with Lipton or whatever, but it's not the same. Real iced tea - real Southern iced tea - means Luzianne. Can't find it here at the local Gristedes or Food Emporium.

Well, I have received a CARE package from one of my best Atlanta buds who's in NY this week for the Theatre and Theology course taught every summer at General Theological Seminary by friends Harry and Jay. Thanks to Ann, I now have a good supply of Luzianne tea bags and real grits that should last me until I can get back to Atlanta over Labor Day. Um-um. (She wasn't able to fill the fried chicken gap, though.)

I love that I have so many pals in town right now. For me, it's been a week of being treated to lovely dinners and catching up on what's happening at home. Last night there was an extra ticket to The Drowsy Chaperone, and it was offered to (and accepted by) little ol' me. What a fun show! Made even more fun by sitting amidst good friends. It's one of those seemingly lighthearted musicals with - of course - deeper undertones. Very 1920s - all original music, but it all seems familiar somehow. And it's a great tribute to the LP - pre-CD, for you whipper-snappers. Ah, vinyl! In short, the story comes alive as this guy's sitting in his dingy apartment listening to the cast album of a 1928 musical.

So, a week of good friends, fine food, terrific theatre, AND I walk away with my Luzianne and grits! The lap o' luxury, I tell ya'! I'm thinking of throwing a Grits and Iced Tea Party on the fire escape this weekend. Come one, come all!

Sorry, no pics. Blogger's not letting me post them. :-(

Too Darn Hot

It ain't just a Cole Porter number from Kiss Me Kate. I mean, it is truly too darn hot (and too *!#$%!* humid!). Shorty does not do well in heat and humidity. I know, I know - I come from Atlanta, GA and should be immune to this summertime sludge, but, nope. I've never done well in the heat.

One reason is that my own personal body temp is higher than the norm. No 98.6 for me, thank you. I run a steady 99.2. The Red Cross Blood Center in Atlanta has a note of it on my file, since I donate several times a year (just to get the cookies and juice, mind you). So right from the git-go, I'm bakin' a little bit. Shove me out into 80-90-degree weather with 80% humidity and I'm pert-near dead.

Now, in Atlanta, I could go from air-conditioned house to AC car to AC work to AC store, etc. Not that easy here in NYC. The subway cars are nice and cool but the stations aren't. Then there's the hike to and from Grand Central (OK, not long, only a couple of blocks. But in this heat . . . ) that gets me to where I'm going looking just like I stepped out of the shower. Wringing wet. And lots of places here aren't air-conditioned or at least they haven't turned 'em on yet. I feel like a walking sponge inside a plastic bag. My poor 99.2-degree body is cryin' "Uncle!" Nothing I can do about it except wait patiently for autumn.

But I did find an appropriate quote from Henry David Thoreau (not to let Winston get ahead of me on this) regarding heat. And writing. It's more about writing than heat, but I'm making the connection 'tween the two and passin' it on.

Ahem:

"Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with. He cannot inflame the minds of his audience."

- Henry David Thoreau

So I guess it means that while it's really hot outside and I have the "heat" in me, I should get over my writer's block and start burning a hole in something. Or something like that.

You could always Depend on June

A small salute to the late June Allyson, that girl-next-door movie musical icon who died on Saturday.

I actually saw her live and in person once during my Turner days. I was walking through the lobby, and this teeny-tiny woman, who had her back to me, was checking in with the receptionist. I knew who it was the second I heard the voice. And, of course, double-noted the distinctive page-boy hair-do. She was at the studio to be interviewed by Robert Osborne for Turner Classic Movies. Still cute as a button - must've been about 80. But she was so short. Notice that the next time you're watching The Glenn Miller Story or Good News. Or an old commercial for Depend undergarments.

She was no Shelley Winters, but she was June Allyson. Salute - Junie, m'girl!

Hand me a chisel!

I'm chipping away at writer's block.

Oh, be assured that I am writing; I have to - for work, certainly, and for a freelance project (due last week, by the way). But. I'm just writing crap. Like I forgot to plug in the machine labeled "Creative Good Stuff." Am I missing the plug or the outlet? Or maybe it's an AC/DC thing.

All I'm churning out is a buncha' blah-blah-blah. Lukewarm spew-you-out-of-my-mouth stuff of Biblical proportions. Quick, somebody give me a good whack to the head! Aargh!

H - less in Manhattan

Saw this little sign outside a trendy art gallery and couldn't resist documenting it. True art doesn't include correct spelling, I reckon.

Da' Bridge

They say the Brooklyn Bridge is the only place on earth where an airplane can fly over a pedestrian walking on top of a car driving over a boat floating over a subway train ( the train goes under the river between the boroughs here). Whew! That said, I was one of those pedestrians, etc., today. It's a great walk with spectacular views. I walked to Brooklyn, had lunch, walked back. Call me when you get to town, and we'll walk over to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory for some great ice cream and amazing scenery!

Mmmmm, a rooster's hind-feathers

I love passing little bars and restaurants that proudly proclaim "Cocktails" on the outside. There's just something about the word "cocktail" that conjures up Nick and Nora Charles or the Algonquin Roundtable group.

"Let's go for a cocktail" sounds so much more alluring and upscale than "Let's go for a drink," which sounds like you just want to get drunk and throw up on a sawdust floor. A cocktail requires a little black dress and sling-backs. A drink? Running shorts, a sleeveless t-shirt and a mullet.

But where on earth did the term "cocktail" - as a description for a mixed beverage - originate? Everything I've found out so far seems pretty weak and usually ends with "but no one's really sure." Enlighten me, someone. Where do you think the term "cocktail" came from?

And let's go for cocktails later, darling.

Lunchtime in the UN 'hood

I know most people think of fiscal and political incompetence when they think of the United Nations, but I always think of Eleanor Roosevelt, Dag Hammerskjold, and UNICEF. Such a romantic, I know!

Anyway, since it was such a gorgeous day here in New York - sunny, low humidity - I decided to stroll over to the next block to get upclose and personal with the place. (OK, not that upclose - too many guards, doncha' know.) Here are a couple of pics -

Pocket Lint

Odds and ends. Bits and bobs. Stuff and nonsense. Pestering little gnats flying around in my head. This is as good a place as any to get rid of it.

• Having finished The Shadow of the Wind (great book - thanks for the recommendation, Liz!), I'm in a duel-book situation right now, reading both Marley and Me and Balzac and The Little Chinese Seamstress at break-neck speeds. Somehow I picked up both the other afternoon, just to get a taste, and wham! - got sucked into both. So, it's back and forth for me for a couple of days. Both books will be finished tonight, I suspect. Ever do that? Always do that?
• No Emmy nomination for Hugh Laurie? An outrage! A whack on Emmy's head with Gregory House's cane!
• Since all TV is re-runs right now, except for some incredibly inane reality shows (giving "inane" a bad name, even), I've been indulging in Ovation. I love getting the backstory on masterpieces of art and music, or falling right into a Petula Clark retrospective. (Is "Downtown" still not one of the best songs ever? And didn't PC wear the most fabulous clothes in the 60s and 70s? You go, girl!) Ooh. And also a backstage look at Bryn Terfel, that adorable bear of an opera singer. (I have his CD of songs of Welsh songs - "We'll Keep a Welcome." Aaaaah! A round of Cwm Rhondda for everyone!) Anyway, Ovation is keeping me somewhat sane in the heat and humidity that is New York in the summer.
• I'm still getting used to the fact that when I hear, "The UN Security Council meets again today to discuss North Korea," that said meeting is directly across and one block over from where I work. Maybe I'll stroll by the UN during lunch today, just to see if any sparks are flying. (I'll report back.)
• So 3 folks were arrested for trying to steal Coca-Cola secrets for Pepsi. Notice no one from Coke ever tries to steal Pepsi's formula. I rest my case on why Coke is better than Pepsi.

Whew! Good to get that stuff off my chest. Got any pocket lint you need to clean out today?

Why the Fat Lady Won't Sing

And why Hitchcock made horror films, Mao wore loose jackets, and Santa only works one night a year. They're fat.

Here's another one of those studies that somebody probably got all kinds of money to do and traveled to the four corners of the world to research. CNN News Flash: "Fat People Not More Jolly." Wow! Color me surprised. Seems there's a connection between obesity and depression. Why shut my mouth! (No, really, shut my mouth so I won't eat anymore and get depressed.)

I tell ya' friends, doing one of these studies is better than winning the lottery, especially since it seems rich organizations just can't keep from throwing the big bucks at something like this.

Hmm. Three things I'd like to research:

• Are people who frequent 5-star spas less stressed than people who don't?
• Which international city has the best restaurants?
• Does having a massive bank account help you live longer (all health issues being equal)?

But I'm open to other ideas.

I guess tomorrow they'll run the companion piece "Skinny People Not Very Jolly, Either." And the next day: "Jolly: What Nobody is Anymore." Perhaps I could do a study on where all the "jolly" went.

And from Atlanta . . .

Hope someone took my spot in front of Peachtree Battle Shopping Center to cheer on the runners. Raisin' a Mimosa in your honor, all you Peaches!

True Blue Movies

Here's a 4th of July invitation to everyone out there, regardless of where you come from: What film swells your heart with (insert your nationality here) patriotic pride? A war film? A sweeping drama? A knee-slapping comedy?

Personally (and predictably), I'm a sucker for Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942). Well, first of all, it's a musical, and you know I love me a good one of those. Secondly, any movie that features a "Mary" song is A-OK with me. And who doesn't love seeing James Cagney prancing all over creation? His springy style of dancing is infectious. The film is full of sing-along songs, and it's a beautifully crafted work, to boot. Cagney was the first actor in a musical role to take home an Oscar. Interestingly enough, Yankee lost out to Mrs. Miniver (high on someone's British patriotic list?) for Best Picture. Well, it was World War II, after all.

My close second would be Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939). Except it makes me wish somebody - anybody - in Congress would grow a spine. Sigh. Maybe I'll just stick to musical patriotism for a while.

What about you? Are you as predictable as I am, or is your choice more off-beat? Have glorious 4th all!

The Reason for the Season

"When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation."

So begins the masterpiece crafted by the likes of Benjamin Franklin and John Adams and authored by Thomas Jefferson ('cause he could write so purdy). What a collection of great minds were hashing things out in steamy hot Philadelphia that summer!

If you know your US History - or, shoot, even seen the musical 1776 - you know the Declaration of Independence was a thorny, dangerous document to birth. Face it, everyone who had anything to do with it was guilty of treason to the Crown. They knew it and did it anyway.

The signing of the final version of the Declaration is what we celebrate today ( 'nary a hot dog or firecracker was in sight in 1776). Go read the whole thing for yourself here. It isn't long, and it's beautifully written, thank you very much Mr. Jefferson.

And while you're at it, it wouldn't kill ya' to have a go at the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, either. Not as lovely to read as the DoI (Tom was in France at the time, I believe), but even more important. It'll be the most patriotic thing you can do on this 4th of July.

"We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor."

Happy Independence Day 2006!

Happy Thanksgiving!

One Fourth of July my English "mother" called to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving. For some reason - selective English memory? - Jeannie gets Independence Day and Thanksgiving mixed up. I can sort of see why. Both are patriotic holidays. Both involve the consuming of much food. Both have distinctive celebratory hoopla (one has fireworks, the other parades and football).

During the late 1970s, I spent several Julys with Jean and Aubrey in Walton-on-Thames (about 25 miles southwest of London). One Fourth of July I arrived home in the late afternoon to find: 1) a large Confederate flag towel (bought by Jeannie during a trip to Florida) hanging outside their home, and 2) a slap-up turkey dinner awaiting me.

A teachable moment, see? First, wrong (very wrong) flag. I calmly explained how the fledgling colonies declared independence from Mother England, and as brutally shocking as it was, that's what we celebrate on Independence Day. Mind you, I've always felt the English should celebrate getting rid of us, as well, so I don't know why they don't recognize the holiday. And second, wrong food. While I love a good roast turkey, I just can't get into it much in mid-summer. But throw a hot dog or hamburger on the grill and top off the meal with cold watermelon? I. Am. There. Nevertheless, Jeannie and I still get a good laugh out of the Confederate-flag-turkey-dinner 4th of July. It was the thought that counted, after all.

Yesterday, for instance. The Brennan clan gathered at Aunt Kathy and Uncle Rick's lake home for an all-day pig-out-pre-4th-fest. (OK, the Brennan clan, plus 100 of their closest friends.) Lots of people. Lots of food (see above - and that's just a portion of the "main" course, after two rounds of appetizers and dessert to come!) and beer and wine. Lovely waterfront view of Lake Hopatchong (New Jersey is so misunderstood.) A marvelous time had by all. The only thing that put a damper on the day was the 3-hour drive home (normally 1 hour) as Kerry and I got stuck in George Washington Bridge traffic into the City. Aaargh!

Great family, good friends, fabulous food - a perfect way to kick off the 4th. Something to remember when Thanksgiving rolls around.

Mamma Meh-(insert shoulder shrug here)-a

Kentucky Fried Chicken. Barry Manilow. Cool Whip. Bodice-rippers. ABBA. These are things that people profess to hate, while secretly they can't get enough of 'em. I mean somebody's buying McDonald's hamburgers and Sandra Bullock movies, right? So when a friend got a deal on a couple of tickets to the ABBA-songfest Mamma Mia at the Winter Garden, well, sure, I was up for it.

All I can say about it is a lukewarm "meh." The story line was very thin - but it's an ABBA musical, so I wasn't expecting Sweeney Todd or Caroline, or Change. Most of the songs felt forced into their respective slots and lacked any 70's ABBA spark. The cast didn't seem to be having any fun until the curtain call, when the main characters come out resplendent in true ABBA spandex and sparkles to sing "Waterloo."

Had there been any energy in the thing at all, the audience should have been dancing in the aisles at several points in the show, most especially at curtain call. Nope. Not even much rhythmic clapping. (By contrast, folks are dancing, singing, and going wild during Hairspray's closing number "You Can't Stop the Beat.") I expectd the same kind of energy in Mamma Mia as Hairspray and was disappointed. (Well, and Hairspray has a great plot line, too.)

Knowing me, knowing you - much better to watch Muriel's Wedding to get your ABBA on.

Which books would you take along?

When I moved from Atlanta to New York a couple of months ago, I had to decide which belongings I could take with me to my new tiny furnished studio apartment and which I had to leave behind in a storage unit. Obviously, my furniture had to stay, plus most of the china and kitchenware, winter clothes, and knick-knacks. The really valuable - rather, invaluable - items like family Bibles and photo albums I left in Kate's charge (not in storage, thank you).

Looking around my many shelves of double- and triple-shelved books, I had to make a decision about which books to store (most of them) and which to take as comfortable old friends. I limited myself to one medium-sized box - though I admit I spilled over to half of another box. As I made my choices, I could almost hear the other books crying out, "What! You're not taking me?" Sorry, old friends. I promise to make it up to you someday.

Well, here's what I chose:

• The Birds Fall Down by Rebecca West
• Teller of Tales by Daniel Stashower
• Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott
• An Instance of the Fingerpost by Iain Pears
• Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
• The Line of the Sun by Judith Ortiz Cofer
• The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
• The March by E.L. Doctorow
• The Professor and the Madman and The Meaning of Everything, both by Simon Winchester
• Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden
• The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
  
• The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty
• The Ponder Heart by Eurdora Welty
• Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome
  
• Seabiscuit by Laura Hillenbrand
• The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame
• The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgsen Burnett
• Inferno by Dante
• Year of Wonders by Geraldine Brooks
• Abraham Lincoln Trilogy by Carl Sandburg
• Marley and Me by John Grogan
• Forever by Pete Hamill
• Atonement by Ian McEwan
• To Make Men Free and No Greater Courage by Richard Croker
• Rebecca by Daphne DuMaurier
• Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland
• Miss Piggle-Wiggle Treasury by Betty MacDonald
• Pastoralia by George Saunders
• The Red Tent by Anita Diamant
• Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt
• The Fall of a Sparrow by Robert Hellenga
• City Lights Pocket Poetry Anthology (ed. Lawrence Ferlinghetti)

All my World War I books (fiction and non), for research purposes, including:

• 1914 and 1915, both by Lyn MacDonald
• The First World War by John Keegan
• Testament of Youth by Vera Brittain
• The First World War by Hew Strachan
• The Great War: Myth and Memory by Dan Todman
• The Guns of August by Barbara Tuchman
• A Very Long Engagement by Sebastien Japrisot
• Regeneration by Pat Barker

All of my Harry Potter books

So, which of your beloved volumes would holler "Take me along!"?

Cyclists, Umbrellas, and AC Drips

These are the things you need to look out for in New York City.

The most dangerous are the folks on bicycles - the racing types who speed around the outer ring of Central Park and the delivery boys (and they are all boys/men) paying no heed whatsoever to the traffic lights. I know that New York taxi drivers have a certain reputation, but they very rarely run even yellow lights. The guys on bicycles, however, zip around corners and through cross-streets with no regard to cars, people, or animals in their paths.

Then, there are all the umbrellas which pop out in force during a rainy period. The sidewalks are already packed with people; give 'em each an umbrella and Whoa! Nelly! Throw in a clueless tourist or two, and you may as well put on armor and goggles to avoid some serious poking. Dangerous!

The third thing isn't so dangerous, but it is irritating: air-conditioner drips. See, New York has - for the most part - not discovered central air conditioning. So every building built before 1980 has a slew of AC units hanging out of its windows. And they drip down, down, down splat! on my head. There I am, minding my own business, walking down the sidewalk and a big ol' drip of water (several, since I walk a gauntlet of AC unit buildings) hits me. Now, I could walk around with an umbrella, but that adds real danger (see above).

Don't say I didn't warn ya' -

Expect the Unexpected

Does this phrase bother anybody else? Everytime it flashes across the TV screen or I see it in print, I wonder what it really means.

If you expect the unexpected and the "expected" happens, is that considered "unexpected"? Contrarywise, if you expect the unexpected and the "unexpected" happens, wouldn't that be "expected"? So, what's the point?

Am I over-analyzing this? Do I need to have a gin and tonic and stop asking myself stupid questions? And would that be "expected" or "unexpected" (if you're expecting the unexpected from me)?

Yeah, but you should see the other guy!

Woke up this morning with a shiner.

Like any self-respecting woman, I don't look in the mirror first thing in the morning, so I didn't notice the black-eye until after I'd walked Bailey and was ready to hit the shower. Where the hell did it come from?

The weird thing is that it doesn't hurt at all. But there it is - a nice big purply-red splotch under my left eye. If I'd banged it on something during the night (what??), wouldn't I feel some pain? Nope. Nada.

It does kinda give me a devil-may-care, tough-girl look, though. Maybe I'll start wearing an eye-patch. I do live in New York City now. Hmm.

I suppose if this kind of thing is going to happen whilst I'm sleeping, I'd better swaddle my head in foam rubber before retiring. Ah, me. It's obvious I need a keeper.

Still, it's a mystery.

Oy, Mr. Buffet! Throw some my way!

So old Warren is gonna give away a big chunk of his fortune (the Berkshire Hathaway B stock, worth about $40 billion), it seems. Stop jumping up and down and crossing your fingers. It looks like the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation will get most of it, because it needs it and all (with only $30 billion in assets). The rest will go to foundations run by members of Buffet's family. Sigh.

Wish WB had thought to divvy it up between some of the foundation-less masses. Would it've killed him to have spread the wealth a little? Shoot, even throwing the hordes a tenth of the fortune would leave $36 billion for all those foundations and given a coupla million of us poor working (and even non-working) shlubs a little monthly breathing room. Another sigh.

Remember that old television drama - and I'm showing my age here - The Millionaire? Each week, Michael Anthony, working on behalf of the mysterious John Beresford Tipton, delivered a cashier's check for $1 million to some unsuspecting person. Why, Warren Buffet could take a lesson from JBT and anonymously deliver $1 million checks to a bunch of folks. I wouldn't be greedy; I'd take a measley $1 million cashier's check, even in 2006 dollars (as compared to The Millionaire's 1950's dollars). Oh, yeah - and it was $1 million tax free.

C'mon, Warren. Step up to the plate. Be our John Beresford Tipton. Send Michael Anthony to our doors!

Just a run-of-the-mill Saturday afternoon in New York

It was pouring rain here yesterday, so I decided to catch one of the last performances of Clifford Odets' "Awake and Sing!" at the Belasco Theatre (it closes today). What a treat - sitting 12 rows back, center orchestra, watching the likes of Ben Gazzara, Zoe Wannamaker, Mark Ruffalo, and Lauren Ambrose do sweet justice to this classic. All performances outstanding - I do love Zoe Wannamaker. Not sure what I think about the device of taking away parts of the set as the play progressed - I get what was being conveyed, but, hm. Lovely old theatre, classic play and performances, a wet Saturday afternoon - yum!

What I did discover about myself is that I'm extremely impatient with tourists! Yikes! I don't deal with 'em much on the Upper East Side, or even in my work-a-day life, since they seem to congregate around Times Square and the Theatre District. Just keep moving, people! Geez! Uh-oh - I wonder if there's a 12-step program for this creeping tourist-phobia of mine? It'd be something if the rudest person in New York came from Atlanta! I promise to work on that. Promise.

"Too hot, too cold. Too late, I'm sold - "

"Again, on NYC." To quote from a song from the musical "Annie" (stage version, not movie version). And amen, Daddy Warbucks.

It is so, so good to be home. Bailey's hale and hearty, because I know that's first on everyone's mind. The dogsitter even gave her a bath, so she was shiny bright when I got home yesterday evening (Bailey, not the dogsitter).

Today, I slept in, took Bails out for her jaunt around Central Park, then proceeded to re-aquaint myself with the 'hood. Took dry cleaning in to Lee's Laundry downstairs - stereotypical, yes, but there it is, then on to the nail salon to be manicured and pedicured (I so deserved it). Had to run to good ol' Wankel's Hardware (see red/white/blue building in one of the previous posts) for a couple of things - they know me already, and on to lunch at the local Vietnamese restaurant (total - $5.95, including tax).

Step-daughter Kerry called to figure out a time we could get together for dinner (Sunday evening). Our goal is to look ahead to plan our summer theatre-going forays. We're both kicking ourselves big-time for missing "Pajama Game" with Harry Connick, Jr. I hear he was so yummy, you wanted to eat him with a spoon. Darn. (You know how I feel about New Orleans men. Mmmm.) Well, we'll figure out something else - lots of good things here, so never a problem to find something wonderful.

So, I survived my first General Convention, and I don't think that I, personally, contributed to the breakup of the Anglican Communion. Lots of folks on both sides upset about the last Windsor Resolution vote (the infamous B033 requested by both the current and the future Presiding Bishops). I believe pragmatism ruled the day. We had to give the new PB something to go to the table with when she meets with the other big-wig-bishes in a couple of years. Still, no one's happy and those famous Anglican "bonds of affection" have been stretched to the limit, I fear. Sigh.

Going Home?

I can't wait to get back to stumming my guitar on my fire escape on the Upper East Side. No. Wait. That's Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. But I might do that, if I every got to be on my fire escape on the Upper East Side.

Do I really live in New York City? I've been away so long, I've forgotten what it must be like, until an episode of "Sex and the City" last night reminded me. I've only spent 4 weekends in NYC since I hit town the last weekend in April. Just when I get used to the place and the pace, I have to leave town. All part of the job, of course, but boy - I haven't been "home" in 17 days and I'm ready to see old Bailey and cook my own food.

We leave this afternoon, so - God willin' - I'll be in my little studio apartment by dinnertime. I'm taking tomorrow off, as are most folks dragging in from General Convention. It'll be good to get back into my Central Park walking routine again.

So far, I'm not scheduled to leave town until the last weekend in July, when I have a mission conference in Amherst, Massachusetts. So I plan to dig right back into New York City - see a play or two, discover the best places to shop (I'm still trying to find those), and get to know some areas I haven't spent much time in, like the Village and SoHo.

I'm soooo in a New York State of Mind. Hello life, Goodbye Columbus. (And thanks for the hospitality!)

A Real Live Literary Figure

For those fans of the Alexander McCall Smith series No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, I've met one of the key figures in the fifth (I think) book, A Full Cupboard of Life. Yes, Bishop Trevor Mwamba, who plays a small but vital role in the book, has been in Columbus for the past two weeks and has become quite the media darling.

He's a darling for many reasons, not the least of which is his centrist stand on the whole gay bishop issue. He gave a brilliant speech the other day, reminding the crowd that African bishops aren't of one mind on this, and that the average African is concerned with food, shelter, health, and education, not sexuality issues. Hear, hear.

Bishop Mwamba is also excited about our new Presiding Bishop - says the women back in Botswana will be thrilled. Well, sure - anyone that close to Precious Ramotswe (the beloved Botswannan detective in the books) would naturally carry the flag for women leaders.

The evening of his arrival, I was privileged to have dinner with Bishop Mwamba and two other people. It was a long, leisurely dinner - one where folks really engage in conversation and laughter. His sister lives in Atlanta, so we had lots to talk about. I didn't learn of his literary status until the next night, when he was introduced as a speaker and the Precious Ramotswe connection came to light. He's promised to sign my book next time we meet.

I'm thinking a trip to Botswana is in my future . . .

It's a Girl!

Very historic day in the House of Deputies yesterday. I was sitting in the visitors' gallery (staff aren't allowed close-up seats!) when the news came down that our new Presiding Bishop is to be Katharine Jefferts Schori. The rule in the HoD is no applause, or show of approval / disapproval, etc., but I gotta tell ya' - gasps, tears (of joy), hugs, barely contained hysterics were the order of the moment.

No one - no one - could believe it. Never in a million years did we think she'd get the job. We all assumed the bishops would do the safe thing in light of the Windsor Report fiasco. But they were very courageous - they elected the best person for the job, whatever the gender. Keep in mind that there are only 5 or 6 women in the House of Bishops, so Schori was elected by the boys.

I got to attend her press conference last night (sorry the shot is fuzzy) and she is one very smart cookie. As someone (a guy) said, she had a whole different take on the questions - always answering from the personal, human point of view rather than a hierarchical point of view.

There is such energy around this - people smiling, laughing, feeling great about what happened. Folks who were at General Convention three years ago say the mood is very different. Then, folks were somber, worried about what the reaction to the Robinson thing would be back home. No one's worried about this. The best person got the job. Period. Wow!

On a personal blog-note, I'm not able to respond or add comments to Blogger on this laptop, for some reason. Please know that I appreciate your reading and commenting - I'll try to catch up when I get back to New York on Friday.

From Columbus - goodnight and woo-hoo! The girls are kickin' ass!

Finding An Old Friend

Yes, it's Mr. Peanut! (And not the rappin', hip-hoppin' one from last year's commercials - ugh!) Turns out there's a Planters Peanut Shop just around the corner from my hotel here in Columbus, Ohio (where, if you'll remember, I'm ensconced for another week). Walking back from some function or another yesterday, the smell of fresh roasted peanuts hit me before I ever saw the neon Mr. Peanut winking at me. Fresh roasted peanuts. Yu-um!

When I was a kid in Chattanooga, Tennessee, we, too, had a Planters Peanut Shop a couple of blocks from our house. Summer evenings would find a knot of children and a parent or two making their way up our street and across busy Brainerd Road to get a big ol' sack full of hot roasted peanuts. That roasted-peanut-smell was the olfactory equivalent of the Pied Piper, drawing us closer and closer to the peanutty object of our affections.

The shop was usually crowded. It was summer in the South, after all. Oh, what torture to have to hang around outside the shop and wait your turn! Well worth the wait, however, as your little hand would scoop up a handful of warm little jewels from the big ol' sack o' nuts. Mmmmmm.

And you know what? The fresh roasted peanuts I bought yesterday here in Columbus had the same wonderfully indescribable taste as the ones from Chattanooga all those years ago. It was a fine thing to find an old friend again.

Oh. And by the way. Whatever the mainstream news is reporting about what's going on here, the real news of the General Convention of the Episcopal Church is the amazing stories of folks working hard for deaf ministries, peace and justice, HIV/AIDS, youth ministries, non-violence training, Appalachian ministries, the health and education of people in Sudan, India, Honduras - the list goes on. Here's hoping we get beyond the Windsor Report and focus on this very real stuff.

Goodbye Life, Hello Columbus

Day 6 in Columbus, Ohio, and we're just getting started. General Convention of The Episcopal Church starts today.

So far, I've seen and heard all sorts and conditions: arch-conservatives, ultra-liberals, LL Bean ladies, sandal-wearing monks. Most everyone's chipper and friendly right now. Who knows what will happen as folks get cranked up in the legislative committees. Here's hoping the gay bishop brouhaha's over. Ah, well.

My job is to act as press liaison for Anglican and Global Relations, escort international visitors to and fro, and just be helpful and gracious. Thank goodness we Episcopalians are allowed to drink.

Columbus, however, doesn't seem to be very hoppin', at least not downtown. I think we're the only ones here (granted, we're here in force). Fortunately, I'm in a comfortable hotel not too far from the convention center. I'm in search of a CVS or Target at this moment (but I understand I might not find anything downtown).

The point is, Shorty may be a little lax in posting over the next two weeks. I will let you know, however, if I'm made the scapegoat for the complete breakup of the Anglican Communion. Stay tuned.

(Enjoying Shadow of the Wind, by the way -)

Summer reading

I always wonder why people think that summer's a good time to read trash, while winter's the time to read deep, hi-brow stuff. I mean, I get the "beach-reading" thing and all, but doesn't it make more sense to read trash - sort of the literary version of hot chocolate or a plate of nachos - when it's cold and gloomy, and dig out the Tolstoy - the literary version of vodka (lots of it) fresh outta the freezer - while you're sunning yourself?

Think about it - there you are, glistening with baby oil and iodine, while all the poor Russians are slogging through house-high snow? "Man," you say to yourself, as you flip from your back to your stomach. "Just reading this makes me feel like I'm freezin' my patoot off!" See, perfect summer reading.

Then, when the ice and brrrrr set in where you are, that's when you dig out the "star" biographies and bodice-rippers. "Whoa!" you shiver, as you throw another log on the fire and another tot of brandy in your hot chocolate. "That Justin Timberlake has had such a tough life!"

Or maybe not.

I've just started The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon (see reading list a few posts down). I have an early morning flight to beautiful Columbus, Ohio, my home-away-from-home for the next two+ weeks, so I needed a good paperback to take along on the journey. Terrific so far.

What are you reading this summer - dark, gloomy Russians or feather-brained heiresses?

Tha best thing about summer

Two words (or one hyphenated word, your choice) : flip-flops. I'm well aware that folks either love 'em or hate 'em, but I am firmly in the love-'em category. Such foot freedom! Such release! Why, I just warm to the sound of the onomatopoeiatic footwear. Flip-flop, flip-flop, slap-slap, slap-slap.

Pulitzer Prize-winning hack (and she is a hack - how she won the Pulitzer is beyond most thinking people) Robin Givhan of the Washington Post wrote a scathing little piece the other day about how uncool flip-flops are. Ugly feet, Robin? That your problem? "Uncool" flip-flops definitely ain't. They come in so many precious-with-a-capital-PRESH styles now, I'm not buying your pouty little review.

Now, I must admit to having my dog-walking flip-flops (the $2 rubber kind - but in really cute colors!) and my dressy, bejeweled ones (the more up-market $10-12 sort) - a range, if you will, suitable for all occasions. Listen, with a fresh pedicure and my feet shod in hot pink thin strappy sparkly flip-flops, I could meet the Queen. Never saw what the fuss was about last year when that girls' soccer team (or whatever) showed up in flip-flops for a photo op with the Prez. (In my book, my dog-walkin' flip-flops woulda' been perfect for that scenario, if you get my drift.)

So Robin, Robin, Robin. Get thee out into the world to see the wonderful range of foot-freeing tootsie-wear available during the steamy months. Sheesh. I'll bet she's still wearing pantyhose.

Yup. Flip-flops are just about perfect in my book, and I'm hard-pressed to pull them off my feet when October rolls around. The only drawback that I see is that you can't sneak up on anybody when you're wearing flip-flops. But other than that, just slap on a fresh coat of nail varnish (um, probably not the guys) and slide 'em on. They're the best thing about summer.

Girlfriends Weekend

This past weekend was our annual "girlfriends weekend," and for the second year in a row, I wasn't there.

Ten or so years ago, four childhood friends and I made a pact to get together once a year, with annual hosting duties rotating through the group. We roll in to the driveway of one or another's house on a Friday afternoon in June, eat, talk, eat eat eat, talk talk talk, sleep, eat eat, talk talk . . . until after lunch on Sunday.

Over the course of the weekend, we find out what each others' kids and animals are up to, the latest gossip on school friends we like and school friends we don't like, who's died, who's divorced, who's won the lottery - all the while eating, or lounging on the beach (if we happen to be at the twins' place in Destin, Florida).

And lots of remember whens. The time we stuffed Linda into a locker during our junior high days (she was small, she fit, why not?) always comes up. Various dating disasters - of course - paired with "Whew! Dodged a bullet there!" The hell we put our poor old 4th grade teacher through (we were little smart asses and she was way too old to be teaching us - no one's a winner in this story). The fourteen times we had to lug Susan's Homecoming Queen suit (and damn tiara) to school for yet another yearbook picture. And so on.

But I reckon they'll be kickin' me outta the club unless I show my face at the next year's girlfriends weekend. I've invited them to New York - might make a nice change from Chattanooga or Franklin or Sand Mountain or Atlanta (or Destin). And were my ears burning over the weekend? You bet.

Big kiss to all the girlfriends out there. We'll always be 14. Or 10. Or 17.

It's what I tell myself every morning when I look in the mirror . . .

Me and the Guggenheim: Restoring Our Exteriors Daily.

Just don't think about it

Last night, two people I don't know slept in my house in Atlanta. Yes, thank goodness (and Kate), the house finally rented - which had to happen since I certainly can't afford New York rent and a mortgage payment. So, whew!

But I woke up in the middle of the night realizing that my house - my sweet little Atlanta home that holds such wonderful memories and has cost me 13 years of blood, sweat, and tears - is now occupied by someone other than me. And I feel heavy and sad.

I can't shake the feeling of wanting to break down in tears. I no longer occupy my home.

All the Thanksgiving dinners with family and friends packed into the dining room and living room, all the Christmas trees and Christmas cards, all the kids who ran in and out of the place as Kate was growing up, all the slammed doors (mine and hers) when Kate was a teenager, all the wonderful cold rainy Sunday afternoons reading in front of the fire, all the times I opened the back door to let Bailey out (or in) - all the stuff of life is in that house. That house that someone else occupies now.

I took this picture of the hydrangea bush when I was back in Atlanta the other week. A family friend gave Mother, Bill, and Cindy potted hydrangea when Daddy died in 1999, and I planted mine in the front yard. It always has the most outrageously dark purple blooms - not your ordinary pale purple, blue or pink ones. I'll miss seeing it go florally crazy over the summer. Someone else gets to see it now.

I'm relieved. But so sad. So sad. I'm just gonna try not to think about it.