My Premier Premiere

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

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

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

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

Alan Rickman (Snape).

Emma Watson from afar (gold dress on podium).

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

Summer Saturday in New York City

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

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

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

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

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

Don't you just love New York in July?

How to Succeed at Lord & Taylor

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

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

In the Course of Human Events

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the times they are a-changing.

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

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

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

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

How To Succeed In Business And Have Fun Doing It

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

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

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

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



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

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

Evening Stroll

Through Central Park. With 15,000 other folks.

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

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

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

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

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

All in all, a lovely evening stroll.

Six Decades of Adorable

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

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

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

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

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

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

And we'll still be adorable!

The Gathering of the Girls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cleanest Person in the World

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

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

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

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

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

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

What (and how) are you reading?

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

Currently I have three books rattling around in my head:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Left Behind

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

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

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

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

Yours until the world ends,

Shorty PJs

The Gift of a Rainy Sunday

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

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

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

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

Eschew Fascinators

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sand Castle Building 101: The Drip Castle

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

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

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

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

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

A sand castle is a magical thing, indeed. 

Just a day at the beach

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

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

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

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

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

Having a great time. Wish you were here?

Wonders of the Week

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

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

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

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

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

Not the New 30

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

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

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

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

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