OneSaneVoice
Backtalk by a Brooklyn Girl
OneSaneVoice
Get Back On Board
Husband and I returned last week from a Celebrity cruise to the Caribbean, and while we were flying home to JFK on JetBlue, Husband glanced over at me with a strange look that wouldn't be explained until the next day. Seems while I was watching Law & Order on the inflight TV, he was viewing the news. So he knew about the Costa Concordia running aground and tipping over with 4,200 people onboard a day before I did. Which explains the evasive smile and shoulder shrug on JetBlue when I asked him what he was watching. What he didn't want to watch was me go berserk in midair over a disaster that he knew I would see us narrowly avoiding by being on a different ship. Such is the intimate knowledge marriage bestows regarding a spouse's neuroses.
birds on a wire
gun crossing
electric windows in beacon
wanted: dead
roll down wilma
True, I tell people I'm not afraid of flying, just of crashing. On the other hand, I've never had the slightest fear of getting on a floating city that will be miles from land for days on end. Far from feeling trapped, I always find it liberating. I've even told others who express uncertainty about cruising that it's as safe as checking into any luxury hotel. Provided that the hotel's captain is not a lying coward willing to sacrifice humanity to save his pitiful ass. America has Bernie Madoff, and now Italy has Francesco Schettino.
In case you've been on an intergalactic cruise and aren't aware of this current event, the Costa Concordia is sinking into the Tyrrhenian Sea off the coast of Giglio even as we speak. More bodies are being found daily by rescue crews risking their lives to find the victims of Captain Schettino's criminal negligence. Schettino made the decision on Friday to sail too close to the coastline in order to make a grand showing of the towering vessel under his command. In so doing, he caused the gigantic liner to be gouged by an underwater rock formation, flooding the ship and requiring an immediate evacuation which he didn't stick around to oversee. Description of the captain's actions almost defy believability, so here is the actual transcript between the Coast Guard and the commander of the Costa Concordia.
The day following the disaster, one New York paper ran a headline above the captain's picture proclaiming, "Chicken of the Sea!" In Italy, people are already sporting T-shirts emblazoned, "Get Back On Board, Dammit!" For the loved ones of the twelve confirmed dead and the 20 still missing, the time for jokes will never come. My heart aches for them and their families. The disgraced Schettino, currently under house arrest, has added insult to injury by saying he never intended to leave the ship; he just fell overboard and landed in a lifeboat. How do you say as if in Italian?
Husband and I took a Costa cruise several years ago and our trip was the subject of a blog entry written shortly afterward entitled Talk Amongst Yourselves. It was a humorous look at being onboard a ship where almost no English was spoken. I said to Husband at the time that if the ship was going down, we'd be the last to find out. On the doomed Concordia, speaking English was only a minor handicap. The main one was putting faith in a captain with no honor.
Daughter's Featured Fotos survey the Surroundings on Land
birds on a wire
gun crossing
electric windows in beacon
wanted: dead
roll down wilma
Memory Alley
My 40th high school reunion is coming up now that it's 2012, so go on and figure out what year I graduated. You didn't know there'd be math involved, did you? So far I've attended every reunion my exalted reunion committee has organized, although if truth be told they didn't all happen the exact year they were supposed to. Which is fine because the dates being fungible fits right into the dazed and confused aura of going to high school in the seventies. Maybe our 20th was really our 22nd and maybe one didn't happen at all. I seem to recall attending three reunions and each time I walked into wherever they were held the memorial table with pictures of classmates no longer with us was a little longer. I'm preparing myself for this next display to stretch out like a bowling alley. There's nothing sadder than seeing the Homecoming Queen's face look out at you from behind a piece of glass propped up on a tablecloth labeled In Memoriam. Except, of course, being the Homecoming Queen.
Reunions these days are usually organized on Facebook or Classmates, which I believe was recently renamed Memory Lane. Maybe not even recently since I haven't visited their page in like a year. They wore me out with their incessant Guess Who Wants to Get In Touch With You, OSV? emails and finally one bad day I said out loud I Don't Give A Shit and canceled my membership and hoarded that $5 a month fee somewhere I'll never find it. What Groucho once said turns out to be true: I don't want to belong to any group that would have me for a member. What is even more true is that nothing is ever canceled online. Yesterday I went onto the site for the first time in a dozen months and was greeted with WELCOME BACK, OSV! Mind you, I didn't enter a password or login name or anything. It was genuinely creepy.
The reason I went on was to check if the 40th reunion was still scheduled for September of 2012. I RSVP'd back in 2010 with a decisive Yes and the hopeful comment How nice if this really happens. I meant it optimistically, but I discovered my words might also be taken as sarcasm, as evidenced by another person's comment. In the many months that transpired between my visits, quite a few classmates responded. I read down the list of names and recalled snippets of information regarding each of my former fellow students. Things like how this one was such a good artist, and that one an amazing athlete, and this one was an asshole, and that one I had no recollection of whatsoever. Several left comments about wanting to see everyone again and so forth. One or two gave regrets with way more information about why they couldn't attend than anyone could ever be interested in. Then I got to the name of the guy who's organizing the reunion and he left this comment a few days after I left mine back in 2010: Those individuals who display negative attitudes to this event in public shall be penalized by the planning group. So while you shall remain nameless but have the initials of One Sane Voice, beware.
WHAT?! I couldn't believe I'd been called out over a year ago with my full name in front of the whole class and was oblivious all this time. Which come to think of it is also about right for attending high school in the seventies. Going through the thousand emotions high school memories wreak, I sat in my reclining desk chair and stared at the computer screen. I felt like I was wearing that puffy white gymsuit with the elastic leg bands that cut off your entire blood supply below the thighs. How mortifying. And now I only have nine months to plan my revenge.
Daughter's Featured Fotos are all over the map and double the usual dose
picturesque pennsylvania
raw bacon on a subway bench
all together now
west side sunset
window sill at the farm
central park
bowery wall
we built this city on rock and pole
Reunions these days are usually organized on Facebook or Classmates, which I believe was recently renamed Memory Lane. Maybe not even recently since I haven't visited their page in like a year. They wore me out with their incessant Guess Who Wants to Get In Touch With You, OSV? emails and finally one bad day I said out loud I Don't Give A Shit and canceled my membership and hoarded that $5 a month fee somewhere I'll never find it. What Groucho once said turns out to be true: I don't want to belong to any group that would have me for a member. What is even more true is that nothing is ever canceled online. Yesterday I went onto the site for the first time in a dozen months and was greeted with WELCOME BACK, OSV! Mind you, I didn't enter a password or login name or anything. It was genuinely creepy.
The reason I went on was to check if the 40th reunion was still scheduled for September of 2012. I RSVP'd back in 2010 with a decisive Yes and the hopeful comment How nice if this really happens. I meant it optimistically, but I discovered my words might also be taken as sarcasm, as evidenced by another person's comment. In the many months that transpired between my visits, quite a few classmates responded. I read down the list of names and recalled snippets of information regarding each of my former fellow students. Things like how this one was such a good artist, and that one an amazing athlete, and this one was an asshole, and that one I had no recollection of whatsoever. Several left comments about wanting to see everyone again and so forth. One or two gave regrets with way more information about why they couldn't attend than anyone could ever be interested in. Then I got to the name of the guy who's organizing the reunion and he left this comment a few days after I left mine back in 2010: Those individuals who display negative attitudes to this event in public shall be penalized by the planning group. So while you shall remain nameless but have the initials of One Sane Voice, beware.
WHAT?! I couldn't believe I'd been called out over a year ago with my full name in front of the whole class and was oblivious all this time. Which come to think of it is also about right for attending high school in the seventies. Going through the thousand emotions high school memories wreak, I sat in my reclining desk chair and stared at the computer screen. I felt like I was wearing that puffy white gymsuit with the elastic leg bands that cut off your entire blood supply below the thighs. How mortifying. And now I only have nine months to plan my revenge.
Daughter's Featured Fotos are all over the map and double the usual dose
picturesque pennsylvania
raw bacon on a subway bench
all together now
west side sunset
window sill at the farm
central park
bowery wall
we built this city on rock and pole
Santas, Slow-cookers and Sears
Cooking and I have never been passionate lovers, so when two friends told me at dinner last week that they love their crock pots, I decided it was time to try and spark a romance. I went online and compared the various brands and models and discovered you could spend from $25 to $125 and there were equal pros and cons for all of them. The interesting thing was that the exact same model could elicit a "Best appliance I ever bought!" from one reviewer and "Fire Hazard!" from another. Then I noticed an online special from Sears for a Hamilton Beach 4-quart cooker for $9.99. It got decent reviews and if I picked it up at my local store there was no shipping. I figured for $10 I could test the crock pot waters for myself and decide after a few meals if it was worth further investment in a more advanced model. I prepaid it and got the email confirmation from Sears to come on over.
Santa6Train
Santa-packed
Santas lost on the bus
Santa-Con-Edison
SEASON'S GREETINGS TO ONE AND ALL
Here's what you do to retrieve something from Merchandise Pick-up at Sears. You go to an area attached to the main store and scan the bar code from your email receipt. On a monitor above the waiting area you see your name appear next to the item being picked up along with the estimated time before you'll have it in your hands. There were two other women there when I arrived and we all had 5 minutes next to our name. One had been there half an hour and the other an hour. I figured that it was ten days before Christmas so things might not be running at top efficiency. I would come to find out it was just another day in paradise at Sears.
One woman had returned a giant box containing an elliptical machine that was defective. She was exchanging it for a new one that was supposedly waiting for her courtesy of an hour-long conversation she had with the Returns Dept. that morning. The other woman was picking up two pairs of men's Levis that were reserved for her by another Sears that didn't have the size she wanted. I was there for my ten dollar crock pot. The more time that passed, the more I came to see us as those famous biblical characters The Three Wise Women with only a bar code to guide us.
The young male warehouse clerk came out and asked the Elliptical Woman for her credit card so he could make the exchange. She told him the machine was paid for; it was just an exchange. He showed her paperwork to show the amount had been credited to her card. She showed him paperwork to show the credit was because Sears had charged her card twice.
CLERK: It says here you owe us because we refunded it.
ELLIPTICAL WOMAN: You refunded your own error. I paid for the machine. I actually paid for it twice. I'll be damned if I'll pay for it three times. Please get me the manager.
The clerk turned to the Levis Woman and gave her the jeans, which she inspected carefully, no doubt because she'd been to Sears before.
LEVI WOMAN: Perfect! My son will be thrilled. But the security tags are still on them.
CLERK: Oh. We can't remove them here so I'll have to take them into the store. Be right back.
No one believed him.
The manager appeared and stood in front of the Elliptical Woman looking almost at her but not quite, perhaps due to grogginess or vision problems. He repeated the same story about needing to charge her credit card before she could get the new machine. Words were exchanged and he retreated back into the bowels of the warehouse to do more research and possibly catch a nap. The clerk reappeared with the Levis and presented them proudly to the woman waiting for them.
LEVI WOMAN: These are the wrong size. They're not the ones you left here with. Bring me the ones that were just here.
CLERK: These are them.
LEVI WOMAN: No. These are the right jeans but the wrong size. The ones you gave me with the security tags on them were the right size.
CLERK: But you saw me leave here with the jeans in my hands.
LEVI WOMAN: Then whose hands did you bring them back in? Go get me my jeans. Please.
Before he left, the Elliptical Woman caught his arm and begged him to get her someone to speak with who wasn't the manager. He went into the warehouse and then left again with the Levis.
Several moments passed during which I further bonded with my fellow captives. They were lovely women on the brink of desperation. The warehouse doors swung open and the manager walked over to the Elliptical Woman.
MANAGER: (moving his head around to get her in focus) How can I help you?
ELLIPTICAL WOMAN: WE JUST SPOKE! Don't I look familiar to you? Am I wearing a different face? Go get me someone I haven't seen!
He disappeared and the Elliptical Woman watched him go through the glass part of the warehouse doors. She raised her hand excitedly and pointed in my direction.
ELLIPTICAL WOMAN: Someone's coming with your slow-cooker!
The three of us clustered around the badly damaged Hamilton Beach carton. The Levi Woman advised me to open it before I left. She inspected the glass lid and the ceramic pot and pronounced them damage free. The Elliptical Woman insisted I remove the metal base. I told her it wasn't breakable. She looked at me wearily and said, "Make sure it has a fucking cord." It did. A plug, too. We rejoiced. My new friends held the box still while I replaced the cooker and closed the carton. I felt bad leaving them there. I wanted to ask if there were any messages I could give their loved ones on the outside. We wished each other a joyous holiday and delicious slow-cooked meals.
I wish you all the same.
Daughter's Featured Fotos take us to SantaCon NYC 2011
Santa6Train
Santa-packed
Santas lost on the bus
Santa-Con-Edison
SEASON'S GREETINGS TO ONE AND ALL
Ticket to Ride
A long time ago, five years today in fact, I sat down to write some thoughts and they turned into a half decade of blogging. This entry marks the 417th post to appear in this space and a cumulative total of over 266,000 words. Thank God for punctuation because that would be one mother of a run on sentence. My articles have been graced with more than 1600 amazing pictures taken by Daughter, a gifted photographer and professional educator. A stunning array can also be credited to Cousin, a world traveler and ace shutterfly. During the years that we have been meeting on this page, Son graduated college and Daughter got her masters. I went to school for court reporting and then graduated somewhere else with a bachelors degree in writing. Along the way, Husband taught me how to balance on the back of his motorcycle so I wouldn't tip over and make a mess in the road. The learning goes on. At the moment I am in graduate school working toward my MFA in Creative Writing. Before all that, I was a newspaper reporter and columnist. Needless to say, I'm only a kid at heart.
I have mixed feelings about this, but this post will be my last for the time being. I need to concentrate on my degree and the substantial collection of written work that will comprise my MFA Project and which I have yet to write. This page will stay up right where you find it, though, since I prepaid a multiple year package, wise shopper that I am. Besides, this spot has become like a home to me and you don't sell your townhouse just because you want a month in the country. I cannot predict when new entries will appear, but please don't forget about me. A post might pop up from time to time on no particular schedule. If you are a subscriber, you will receive your usual notice of publication by email, and if you aren't, perhaps you wouldn't mind checking back every now and again. If it's these same words you see, there might be a post in the archive that you missed the first time, or some photos of Daughter's you'd like to revisit. The site is easy to explore, and if you hang around while we're away it would thrill us both.
Thank you so very much for reading. Without you, I'm just putting words on a page. The best part of writing for me is knowing I'm being read. Writers always like to say they write for themselves, and while that's true, it also may be bullshit. Of course we write for ourselves. Sometimes we're our only readers. Writers write because it's what we need to do, but the most satisfied writers are those who connect with others through their written words. Writers also like to say they love writing. That might be another whiff of meadow burger. I think the sentiment that hits closer to the bone is what Dorothy Parker once said: "I hate writing, I love having written."
See you later.
Daughter's Fotos are from her Pennsylvania visit to Boyfriend's Family Farm
the waterfall
the peacocks
the butcher shed
the heart within
the mushrooms
the city girl
Horoscope for Taurus: Potential problems are deflected when you are protected by intelligence
FINALLY the astrology lady shows Taurus some love. For quite some time, it has been the practice at our house for me to read the daily horoscopes to Husband at breakfast and point out how underappreciated our shared birth sign is. The newspaper astrologist routinely showers us with cracks like, "Today people will give you credit for more talent than you have." Husband pretends not to care (or sometimes even notice I'm reading to him) but I know how deep the Bull pride can go since I have horns of my own. Then a few mornings ago, we May babies awoke to find our cleverness acknowledged with the above-mentioned accolade and I knew the rest of the day would prove it out.
Right away something popped up on eBay to show me I was on the right track in my thinking. I did a search for Vintage Women's Watches because I like vintage watches and I needed something to warm up with before I searched the online college library for journals to use for my lit paper, and I came across the following description: "Vintage Bulova circa 1950, a beauty, pristine crystal, original bezel, missing one hand. Not sure if that's how it was made." Well, here's the thing: I WAS SURE! It was made with two hands! All the clean crystals and original bezels in the world aren't going to get that puppy to tell you the time without that other hand. So right away I had a potential problem deflected by my intelligence. I logged onto the school library feeling very protected by my superior brain power.
I scrolled the online database for texts that might inspire me in the direction of focusing my very broad paper theme toward something more specific. I did a Boolean search for toni morrison AND murder AND suicide since when it comes to Toni Morrison, you damn well better expect murder and suicide to be showing up before chapter one is over, and sure enough, JSTOR spit out a dozen pages of hits. I downloaded a slew to peruse later and then jumped in the car to keep an appointment with my fitness trainer, Faith, the individual entrusted with keeping me from being a humpbacked hag crackling with osteoporitic bones in my golden years. Five miles on the parkway brought me to a complete standstill with the digital traffic sign overhead blinking: EXP*CT D*LAYS EX*TS 18 TO 25 and even with all the missing letters and hidden cryptic meaning I KNEW I WAS SCREWED.
I glanced down at my vintage watch and noticed it was running fast, but that still didn't tempt me to bid on the one-hand-wonder in otherwise pristine condition on eBay. I reached into my purse to call Faith and let her know I would be late only to realize I left my phone by the computer. Potential problems were now coming at me faster than my intelligence could deflect them. I looked over to my right and saw that if I moved quickly I could exit the parkway, so I borrowed from the Gemini advice that promised "Lightning fast reflexes lift you up and lighten your load" and found myself on an unfamiliar stretch of road miles from my trainer's town. Fortunately, the GPS was stowed under the passenger seat, and even though Husband is baffled by how someone as bright as I am still doesn't know their way around an area they've lived in for twenty years, I had Virgo whispering in my ear, "You know that those who make decisions based on fear are sure to fail" and believe me when I tell you that being lost scares the crap out of me almost as much as being late aggravates me.
The problem with using a GPS is that it keeps trying to get you back on the highway you just got off of because it's the only way it wants to take you, possibly due to control issues of its own. To direct the device to avoid major highways, I had to go into its settings and that meant pulling off the road to stop the car. Squeezed onto the shoulder with the other cars whizzing by, I persuaded my Garmin 350 to guide me to Faith's on a roundabout route just short of Canada and I arrived fifteen minutes late with Faith watching at the window looking worried. "What happened?" she called out. "You're never late." I opened my mouth to begin my litany of excuses, but then Libra tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Acknowledge your faults and listen with your heart because what you hear as criticism may be genuine concern." That annoying Libra is always such a smarty pants.
Daughter's Fotos travel to us from Boyfriend's Family Farm in PA
the barn
the berries
the king
the fungi
the dog
Old News, New News
Several stories I followed in the past have come around again for another layer of spectacle, opinion, justice, or resolution regardless of justice. One is the Amanda Knox case, which I wrote about in An American in Perugia in 2009, two years after the American exchange student from Seattle was imprisoned in Italy for murdering her roommate. This story hit extra close to home since Daughter had studied in Perugia only five years before Ms. Knox, and we spent the most wonderful week visiting her in the exquisite medieval mountaintop village that hosted her. After following the original trial in which Amanda and her Italian boyfriend were railroaded by a frenzied Italian media and corrupt judicial system, I was delighted to hear that her appeal would be ruled on this month. Having been sentenced on tainted and manufactured evidence to 26 years for the murder, Amanda will soon find out if she's to be set free or re-sentenced to life in prison. That's the crap shoot on the table. Either freedom or something much worse than what she already has. Lifeboat or anchor.
Another case in the news reignites the 2009 circus that was The Death of Michael Jackson, an event I first wrote about here in The Full Marilyn. Testimony is now being heard for the jury to determine if the pop idol's personal physician, Dr. Conrad Murray, should be held responsible for the drug-related death of the superstar. New "never before heard!" recordings of an incoherent Jackson babbling in a frightening manner weeks before his death have been released to flood across the media and social network sites like a punctured artery. The charge the doctor faces is involuntary manslaughter and it carries a sentence of four years. According to news sources both here and in the UK, it will come down to whether the jury believes that Murray negligently administered a lethal dose and then failed to apprise paramedics trying to save the star, or that Jackson took other sedatives without Murray's knowledge, thus rendering the combination of drugs a "perfect storm." When you consider what's going on in Italy at the Knox trial, it's hard to ignore the fact that convicted or acquitted, Dr. Conrad Murray should feel downright joyous to be an American.
The fresh story is that a New York inventor has patented a device that he promises will bring snowman building out of the ice age. You probably didn't realize that making a snowman the old fashioned way was, well, old fashioned. This new invention, approved for a patent only weeks ago, is a plastic sphere that holds an electric charge that enables snow to cling to the surface. The result is a hollow, symmetrical snowman light enough to be maneuvered anywhere on your lawn. A snowman even a child can lift. Possibly even throw, if a new terror alert needs to be added to the list. Somewhere in the world of inventions, someone must have already built that better mousetrap we're always hearing about so the attention of brilliant minds sought focus elsewhere. Calling his creation the coolest thing no one ever thought to make before, the inventor is searching for a manufacturer to handle the orders he feels are bound to roll in. Perfect storms, perfect justice, now perfect snowmen. Type A personalities rejoice.
Daughter's Featured Fotos plumb the Depths of Irony
the age of no
food for thought
can i be the cantaloupe?
america humbled
One under par from the roof
Yesterday I was out of the house all day on various errands, which included a workout appointment and an extended research session at the local library to gather sources for an upcoming grad school paper. When I got back it was mid-afternoon and I ran upstairs to get out of my workout clothes. As I stripped off my top to the spandex exercise tank underneath, I glanced out the window to a swarm of insects. Oh no, I thought in despair, the hornets-flies-wasps-winged ants, whatever, are back, since we've waged battles in the past with all of them. Getting closer to the window I looked down onto the roof overhang and saw the attraction: a dead bird. He was on his back with his feet straight up, and if there was still any doubt in my mind that tweetie wasn't just a sound sleeper, there were insects all over him. I can't be certain of course that it was a him, even with his legs up like that, so I'm just using the first gender identifier that comes to mind and no deeper meaning should be ascribed.
Our upstairs is an addition to the house that was added back in the seventies way before we bought it, so if you look out the window of our dressing room, you see the pitched roof of the original ranch. If you looked yesterday, you'd see a dead bird that would be lying there indefinitely as a food supply for all manner of vermin unless it was removed. I pulled up the screen to survey how far away the bird was and the insects all made a beeline for the inside of our house, so I flailed them away and shut the screen. Hmmm, this would require a plan. A plan and a stick.
I looked around the room and spied a spring-loaded curtain rod behind the door that looked plenty long, so I opened the screen again and leaned out the window with the rod in my hand. It was too short. The bugs came at me again and down went the screen. I went downstairs and toured the house in search of a long instrument to move the bird, and found Husband's vintage yardstick. As I prepared to open the screen again, I looked closely at the ruler and realized Husband might not appreciate feathers and bird guts on the end of it, so I put it back in his office and headed for the basement.
There was a Darth Vader Lightsaber on top of some boxes and I waved it around to check its suitability. It made me feel strong and invincible, especially in my royal blue spandex tank top, but it didn't seem longer than the yardstick so I put it back where I found it. I made my way into the furnace room and saw a free-standing box next to the water heater filled with a bunch of Son's old hockey sticks. Perfect. I could totally score with one of these. I picked out the longest one and wrapped my hands around the black tape that wound down the shaft all the way to the blade. Satisfied, I jogged back up the two flights.
It was a quarter to three as I lifted the upstairs screen for the last time and leaned halfway out onto the roof with the hockey stick in my hand. The elementary school had just been dismissed and bunches of kids and their parents were piling into the cars that lined the street in front of our house. I balanced my weight and took a swing at the bird, missing him entirely, but scraping the hockey blade on the roof shingles loud enough to draw attention from the people below. The insects were flying into my face and I realized I was committed now to finishing the job, so I leaned further out and swung the stick again sending the bird sailing across the roof and into the storm gutter. "SHIT!" I yelled, frustrated that after all my effort I would have to call the gutter service to come get tweetie out before the next rain or everything would back up.
Then I noticed my audience. About twenty parents and children were anchored to the ground by their cars watching a woman in a neon spandex tank top swing a hockey stick out an upstairs window and yell obscenities. Obviously no one could see the bird. Not knowing what else to do, I pulled one of my hands off the stick and waved. "Hi!" I called out. They scurried into their cars, some of the smaller children with their mouths gaping open in confusion and wonder. Hey, I may not be She-Ra: Princess of Power, but I do what I can.
Back to Daughter's Featured Fotos which Never Disappoint
round
Keely
creeping
That's the Way God Wants It
Having grown up in a TV-loving family, it's hard for me to work in total silence when I'm at home. Even while Husband and I were on vacation recently I usually had the television on in the background while I was reading or on the computer in our hotel room. During this vacation it was invariably The Weather Channel, something I've never even watched before, but because we were in the southwest while our house was being assaulted by Tropical Storm Irene back east, I needed to obsessively monitor the atmospheric conditions from a distance. Husband would walk into the room and moan, "The Weather Channel again? Why can't you give it a rest? It's eighty-five degrees and sunny here. Turn off the TV and look out the window already." He was absolutely right, of course, but it was like my spirit was possessed by Al Roker. I couldn't help myself. When we left Arizona and checked into our hotel in New Mexico, the first thing I did was grab the TV remote to see if they got The Weather Channel. Husband just shook his head and threw up his hands. In my defense, I did do my best to be fun in other ways and you can go ahead and use your imagination about that.
One nice thing about The Weather Channel is that there are limited commercial interruptions. It's like they know to cut to the chase, no pun intended here for the storm chasers, those testosterone-addled lunatics too crazy for any wind to blow away. I have to say I didn't miss the never-ending parade of insipid televised ads for things like Christian Singles dating. All the we'll-find-you-your-soulmate-online commercials are much more annoying than actually being on the sites, which, if I recall, can be quite entertaining unless you believe every guy who tells you he's been mistaken for George Clooney. Uh-huh. Maybe Marvin Clooney, the parolee cousin the family won't talk about. He's on EVERY dating site.
The difference between the Christian Singles commercials and the others, like JDate, Match dot com, and e-Harmony, is that the TV ads for Christian Singles act like they were written by someone very close to God who's been appointed spokesperson for The Almighty. Like dating is this religious experience instead of the horror show it is. The TV spots urge single Christian viewers not to wait for God to lead them to their special someone. The voice-over reassures with calm authority that sometimes God is telling you it's time to do it yourself. And what, I wonder, does this heavenly sign look like? Your last blind date showing up in socks and sandals? The tattooed remnants of an ex-lover's name? Across the neck? Is all this saying you could do no worse online? Can I hear an amen?
I know many couples who have met on dating websites, and a few even got married. It's interesting that people are still skittish about saying that's how they met, as if it makes any difference what road leads you to happiness. I guess if you're really concerned that others might judge you for meeting your soulmate online you can always say something more traditional, like you met in a karaoke bar and you got so hammered you puked on his shoes and he had to put you in a cab head first. I'm sure Mom would much rather hear that.
Today's Fotos are from our Southwest Vacation where the weather was great, or so I'm told
eagle dance
Gallup war memorial
hot pursuit
donkey lost
take it easy
Disaster Prone
It all started a couple of weeks ago as I sat in my home office working at my desk. Something moved. I thought it was me, then I thought it was just my stomach that went whoops and skidded sideways. Then I realized it was my rolling desk chair. Then the phone rang and it was Husband calling from his evacuated building to see if I was okay. I said, you know, I'm feeling a little dizzy. I hope I'm not coming down with something. He said you're coming down with an earthquake and I said WHAT? If you're reading this from California or Japan you're thinking what a weenie, she doesn't know what an earthquake is. And you'd be right. Here in New York we don't know from earthquakes and the one we all felt that day was technically an aftershock. But now we know what it feels like and as The Who famously predicated, we don't get fooled again.
Husband and I left for a two-week vacation to the Southwest before hints of Hurricane Irene were in the air and flooding the Weather Channel. Husband would eventually tell fellow travelers in New Mexico that we were from New York and just evacuated further west than advised. The same day we flew out to Arizona, Son and Girlfriend departed for a destination wedding in the Dominican Republic. They were due home the Sunday Irene hit NYC. Daughter was in rural Pennsylvania at Boyfriend's parents' farmhouse and due back the same day. Watching the Weather Channel in our Flagstaff hotel room, I realized both my kids would be stranded wherever they were. I emailed Son and he said JetBlue had already canceled his return flight.
I called Daughter's cell and asked if she was back in New York early because of Irene and she said, "Who's Irene?" I said don't kid, this is a serious storm and she asked why I thought that and I said it's all over the TV and she said the farmhouse doesn't have TV. Boyfriend's parents apparently enjoy a more natural lifestyle than we do and probably even eat fresh food. I said Bloomberg is shutting down the airports and subways Saturday at noon and Daughter said now you're just talking crazy. The subways NEVER shut down. I said FIND A TELEVISION.
I emailed Son from Gallup, New Mexico and he said JetBlue got them on a plane leaving the Dominican Republic the following Saturday, that's the best they could do, and it's a good thing Son speaks Spanish so he could negotiate a good rate at the resort where they were extendedly staying. Daughter's boyfriend drove her to NYC the week following Irene and it took them five extra hours because New Jersey was such a hot mess. I emailed Son from Santa Fe a few days later to tell him to keep an eye on Hurricane Katia which was then making its way toward the DR. He said he and Girlfriend better be getting on that plane or JetBlue would have to deal with Hurricane Son.
The next morning in Taos I got an email from a friend in our neighborhood saying her basement got flooded from Irene so I started feeling anxious because we'd be gone another week and who knows what we'd find when we got back? I emailed Son to please go over and do a walk through when he got home since we live in the same town. The day he called from our living room to give his report, Husband and I were sitting in a rug auction at the Navajo Totah Festival in Farmington, New Mexico. The rug I was waiting to bid on hadn't come up yet among the 200 rugs being sold. The Totah rug auction is a yearly event held in the town's Civic Center auditorium with the bidders sitting in the mezzanine and the Native American weavers in the balcony. It's like nowhere you've ever been. This year there were three older, white-haired women who looked like Iowa church ladies and they were bidding up a storm. They spent over $20,000 on rugs with one going for $7,500 alone. The weavers in the balcony kept giving them standing ovations. It was crazy. My bidding limit for the very small one I was waiting for was $200 and I was hoping none of the three rich old ladies wanted to buy it for a placemat.
Just as my rug hit the podium my cell phone rang.
SON: The first floor looks perfect and so does the basement.
OSV: Great. How about upstairs? (holding up bidding card) One fifty!
SON: One fifty what?
OSV: Not you, the rug. I'm bidding on a rug. (waving card again) One seventy!
SON: Okay, upstairs looks great.
OSV: Great!
WOMAN NEXT TO ME: Yes, it is a great little rug.
OSV: No, my upstairs. It's not wet.
WOMAN: (nodding with a strange smile) How nice for you.
I looked behind me to make sure none of the Money Sisters were bidding. Their cards were down. My treasure was too minor for them.
AUCTIONEER: Sold to number 25!
SON: I'm taking off now, everything's fine here. Did you get the rug?
OSV: Got it.
SON: Good going, Mom. Relaxing vacation, huh?
Daughter's Featured Fotos contemplate Stability
Husband and I left for a two-week vacation to the Southwest before hints of Hurricane Irene were in the air and flooding the Weather Channel. Husband would eventually tell fellow travelers in New Mexico that we were from New York and just evacuated further west than advised. The same day we flew out to Arizona, Son and Girlfriend departed for a destination wedding in the Dominican Republic. They were due home the Sunday Irene hit NYC. Daughter was in rural Pennsylvania at Boyfriend's parents' farmhouse and due back the same day. Watching the Weather Channel in our Flagstaff hotel room, I realized both my kids would be stranded wherever they were. I emailed Son and he said JetBlue had already canceled his return flight.
I called Daughter's cell and asked if she was back in New York early because of Irene and she said, "Who's Irene?" I said don't kid, this is a serious storm and she asked why I thought that and I said it's all over the TV and she said the farmhouse doesn't have TV. Boyfriend's parents apparently enjoy a more natural lifestyle than we do and probably even eat fresh food. I said Bloomberg is shutting down the airports and subways Saturday at noon and Daughter said now you're just talking crazy. The subways NEVER shut down. I said FIND A TELEVISION.
I emailed Son from Gallup, New Mexico and he said JetBlue got them on a plane leaving the Dominican Republic the following Saturday, that's the best they could do, and it's a good thing Son speaks Spanish so he could negotiate a good rate at the resort where they were extendedly staying. Daughter's boyfriend drove her to NYC the week following Irene and it took them five extra hours because New Jersey was such a hot mess. I emailed Son from Santa Fe a few days later to tell him to keep an eye on Hurricane Katia which was then making its way toward the DR. He said he and Girlfriend better be getting on that plane or JetBlue would have to deal with Hurricane Son.
The next morning in Taos I got an email from a friend in our neighborhood saying her basement got flooded from Irene so I started feeling anxious because we'd be gone another week and who knows what we'd find when we got back? I emailed Son to please go over and do a walk through when he got home since we live in the same town. The day he called from our living room to give his report, Husband and I were sitting in a rug auction at the Navajo Totah Festival in Farmington, New Mexico. The rug I was waiting to bid on hadn't come up yet among the 200 rugs being sold. The Totah rug auction is a yearly event held in the town's Civic Center auditorium with the bidders sitting in the mezzanine and the Native American weavers in the balcony. It's like nowhere you've ever been. This year there were three older, white-haired women who looked like Iowa church ladies and they were bidding up a storm. They spent over $20,000 on rugs with one going for $7,500 alone. The weavers in the balcony kept giving them standing ovations. It was crazy. My bidding limit for the very small one I was waiting for was $200 and I was hoping none of the three rich old ladies wanted to buy it for a placemat.
Just as my rug hit the podium my cell phone rang.
SON: The first floor looks perfect and so does the basement.
OSV: Great. How about upstairs? (holding up bidding card) One fifty!
SON: One fifty what?
OSV: Not you, the rug. I'm bidding on a rug. (waving card again) One seventy!
SON: Okay, upstairs looks great.
OSV: Great!
WOMAN NEXT TO ME: Yes, it is a great little rug.
OSV: No, my upstairs. It's not wet.
WOMAN: (nodding with a strange smile) How nice for you.
I looked behind me to make sure none of the Money Sisters were bidding. Their cards were down. My treasure was too minor for them.
AUCTIONEER: Sold to number 25!
SON: I'm taking off now, everything's fine here. Did you get the rug?
OSV: Got it.
SON: Good going, Mom. Relaxing vacation, huh?
Daughter's Featured Fotos contemplate Stability
dragonfly
look inside
flying
check your balance
Every Picture Tells
Husband looked around our house the other day and made the same comment he's been making almost since we got married ten years ago: there's too much stuff in here. Of course, after a decade of living together a nice chunk of the stuff is also his, but never mind that, he happens to be correct. It also happens that I received a magazine in the mail that day with a whole section on how to decorate your house with taste and minimality, sort of a feng shui guide to shit removal. I glanced around at our open space living/dining/den/kitchen area and realized with chagrin that our decor broke about five rules on the first page alone.
Interestingly, Husband and I both have passions for collecting; his is Southwestern artifacts and mine is Depression Glass. Somewhere along the way, his stuff became a collection and mine became tchotchkes. I agree that collecting glassware that was once given away for free in boxes of laundry detergent might seem offbeat, but in my own defense, we do use many pieces of my collection in our everyday life. Others should not be touched under penalty of starched boxers. That said, the real issue is the photographs. I am a freak for artistically framed pictures of the people I love. These individuals include the group you might already suspect: those I gave birth to, those who gave life to me, those who gave life to them, and the lovely man I married who gets to look at all of them in multiple variations. When you add his loved ones pre-me, you have quite a museum tour. The magazine article advised to "display family photographs sparingly" in the living room, and reserve them for places like bedrooms, family rooms and hallways. Well, here I have to admit that EVERY SINGLE room in our house displays family photographs. Unsparingly.
What to do? The magazine suggested removing all photos and then display only the favorites in clever odd-numbered groupings in unexpected places. With a hollow pain in my chest, I swept away all the vintage framed images of my dearly departed elders, the kids' graduation photos (high school, college, graduate school, 6th grade, you get the picture), and our wedding, cruise and vacation shots and laid them all side-by-side and end-to-end on Son's old twin bed. Looking down at the vast array of candids and posed portraits made me feel like I was viewing my whole history in a panoramic slide show. I must have stood there for a half hour in Son's silent bedroom conjuring up memories from each frame of frozen life.
Then I chose my favorites: winsome Daughter in front of our house on her way to junior prom; a birds-eye view of Son in his basketball warm-up suit and game face; Husband kissing me suddenly as the cruise photographer said Smile; Husband with his stepsons when they were (all) young; my parents; his parents; our wedding picture. An odd assortment in the recommended odd number. All perfect and now perfectly displayed on the bay window ledge, piano, and middle bookcase shelf. Seven photographs that hint at the boundless memories our house and our lives hold. Husband and the magazine were right. Less can be more just as much as more can never be enough.
Daughter's Featured Fotos always show what Needs To Be Said
amen
pothole
sad
LOST!
