At the Bistro

On the last day of the semester, I scheduled a hair cut at the salon located in an ever popular shopping mall. The second week of December is not the time to go to the mall, especially on a Friday afternoon. Long ago, I found a double-secret parking area where I've never been left without a spot nearest the door. And this Friday, even in December, was no exception.

Inside the mall, however, was standing room only. The Food Court was a zoo. Hungry and tired from teaching, answering questions like, "Do we have to take the final?" "When is the final?" for hours in a row, I had to eat before sitting in the salon chair, or I knew I'd faint.

Suddenly, I remembered the Bistro at Nordstroms. Someone recently told me I should check it and today was the day.

Standing in line, a long line, I became aware that these patrons were a different lot from the Food Court zoo. Strollers, toddlers, shoppers, and clerks stood in this line with a different attitude. What a great idea, I thought. Here I am far from the madding crowd.

Two blonde 30-something sisters with their daughters about four or five-years-old, one child slighlty taller than the other, holding hands and dressed in pink, come out of the Bistro looking calm and happy. Practically skipping into the Nordstrom's women's department.

Standing next to me in line is a man I identify as distincly non American. He is casually dressed in tan cuffed slacks and a black rather sporty zipped down jacket revealing a dark naby dress shirt. His black leather shoes have a decorative buckle partially hidden under the cuff. His hair is perfectly cut, with the front, now gray, combed straight back where it mingles with the black wavy hair in the back. It's a European style.

A woman walks up, "Hi, sweetie!" I think that if I were meeting this man for lunch, I would not say Sweetie. "Darling" I'd say, or I'd use his name. She's not gorgeous. She's not blonde. She's not trim. She's not well dressed. She's average. Medium height shorter than I'd expect, 5'3"), wearing jeans, a little rump heavy, but average. She has a coat length jacket on and a striped turtle neck (from Macy's when Macy's was Famous; I saw them two years ago; a friend of mine has one). Her hair shows no gray and comes a bit past her shoulders with highlights about a year old. When she speaks I notice braces--the invisible kind you aren't supposed to notice. She's American, mid-western accent. He speaks to her with an accent which sounds Greek to me.

They converse about the day, his day, her day. Soon it sounds medical. A doctor. She holds her own, asking diagnostic questions, and shows an understanding of his dilemna with a patient. Maybe he married a nurse. More likely she married a doctor whom she met when she was a nurse at Barnes-Jewish. I see the ring. It's gargangtuan. They are next to order.

The line moves ahead and I step up to the counter to order my Nicoise Salmon Salad and Michelobe Ultra; I pay, turn around and look for a table. I see a booth seat with no chair across the small table--perfect a single diner. No one is seated at the next table with whom I'll share the long booth seat to my right. But there's a jacket on the back of the chair.

After two or three minutes, the nurse and doctor return to the table. I now recognize the jacket on the chair as his. I continue to write in my notebook, details of the Bistro and them. They are 18 inches away from my elbow. Now this is surreal. She'a on the booth seat, he's facing her and kitty cross from me.

I notice the St. Louis Blues insignia on his navy shirt. I can't hear the details of their lunch conversation over the droaning voices of fellow diners and the clatter of dishes in the Bistro. His pasta arrives and her soup of the day. They share fries. They drink ice-tea.

The Bistro is crowded. All the table are filled now. I see no other patrons dining alone. And no one esle is drinking beer. I'm impressed with myself. Mothers and daughters, girlfriends taking time away from shopping, and gray haired couples relax in the chic Bistro enjoying heaping bowls of Ceaser salad and sandwhiches made with fresh, crisp bread.

My Nicoise salad arrives. Presentation is splendid. I'm ravenous. A large piece of warm salmon rests atop the greens with a hard boiled egg quartered and evenly arranged at the edge of the shallow bowl. Long thin green beans, "French" the menu said, peak out from under the colorful assortment of lettuce, olives, red onion, and potatoes. I dig in, with good grace. Delecious. Better than I could expect salad to be. The beer is refreshing, too, between bites. I'm totally distracted from my neighbors and barely notice that they are finished their lunch.

I look up when they stand to leave. They don't look in my direction and they don't say good-bye.

A Job is a Job is a Job

By any other name, a job is a job. I was reflecting on my past jobs. Make your own list and be surprised at what you are willing to do for pay.

First job: washing dishes for eighty cents an hours at St. Agnes Nursing home. Prying off the sticky, pastey, no need for chewing, hardened food from 100's of plates and sloshing them around in hot water is a JOB.

Stix Bare and Fuller kitchen help: prime responsibility of placing rolls on plates with butter, and filling water glass, and keeping catsup bottles filled. $1.25. Any idiot can do this job.

Life guard. Definitely a better job. Things are looking up. Wisely I kept the job for two (3?) summers. Pay was poor but the job was great.

Plaque Shack sales clerk. Relatives owned the store and I worked there one summer. No complaints.

Newspaper reporter--features. UMR paper. Very little pay! And a former judge threatened to sue the university over one of my article. Thus ended my life as a journalist.

Volunteered for three months after graduation to feed and read to the dying patients at a hospital in Rolla, MO.

First REAL job: Houston, TX. Records Management at the Offshore Company. Very interesting and good pay.

AEROBIC DANCE instructor-- i know, i know, you can't believe it. But it's true. Got my picture in the Peoria Newspaper--FULL PAGE. Really embarassing to see oneself so large in print. I have a copy. I'll have to make a copy and put it on the blog. Yeah, right!

Univ. of IL--Springfield co-host, director, writer of an NPR show for children. Absolutely a favorite job. Tons of fun. Never like the sound of my voice on the air, though.

Lincoln Land Community College-- English Instructor.

Antelope Valley Community College --English Instructor

[I'm beginning to see a pattern; though it sounds like I work an amusement park.]

Pikeville College --Coordinator of Corporate and Private Grants, Editor of Colleg Paper, Education feature writer for city paper [oops, back into journalism]

Music Teacher --grade school, part-time, including directing Christmas Pagent each year.

Kent State Univ. -- English Instructor. We didn't live there long enough to really even mention this job, but they hired me to teach. It counts.

Univ. of Southern Indiana -- Professor of English

Newburgh Historic Society --grants and publicity, mostly volunteer.

Meramec Community College--Prof. of English

UA campus minister

Teacher for Lay Ministry program

Editor for Catholic book publisher

Writer of x# of publications for various Catholic publishers

Hospital chaplain.

Teaching English at MCC, once again

And the winner is LIFE GUARDING. Great tan, good hours, free swimming, when you save someone from drowning or even if they die, you get the rest of the day off--but they don't pay you after you go home. I'm thinking of getting recertified and applying at the Y.

That's 22 total jobs. And still going.

How Old Is Esther Williams?

Well, the first question might be who the hell is Esther Williams? She's a movie star that swam in all of her films. Glitzy, splashy Hollywood style movies (couldn't resist the pun).

Muzzy (nearly 80) saw a commercial with a young, really young, mom cooing to her adorable, chubby baby. "That's Esther Williams' baby. Isn't it cute?"

"Nah, nah, that's not Esther Williams. THE Esther Williams, you mean?"

"YE-E-E-S," she said sarcastically, "Esther Williams. You know Esther Williams?"

"The swimmer."

"Yes. She's wonderful in all her movies."

"That's not Esther Williams. She's like 80."

"What? Oh, stop. That was her right there."

"Mom, she's older than you. That woman was in her twenties."

"Esther Williams is maybe 40 at the most."

"FORTY!!!"

Then, she used my full name, middle name and all! "Yes, she's young. That's her baby."

"Her daughter's baby, maybe, or her granddaughter's baby. But Esther is OLD. Too old for babies."

"She is not. Don't be ridiculous." Now she's angry.

"Ok, I'll go google her." And I left the room knowing that no matter what I found out she wouldn't believe me.

When I returned, I said, "She was a member of the 1940's Olympic Team and her first movie was with Mickey Rooney. And I think he's dead. She's old."

"Now I know you are making things up. He is not dead, he's about 50."

I'm thinking I should just give up about now. Obviously, she wants Esther to be young, eternally, as she is in all the films. But something drives me pursue this ludicrous venture. "When did you see her movies?"

"I don't know. They're on from time to time."

"No, I mean first see her in the movies." Then, I jump to the chase. "She was born in 1922. You were born in 1927. It be--like you having a baby."

"Well,............................ she's just 40. You're wrong. Not 1922, that must be someone else."

Here we go, I pushed her wheelchair through the house to the computer and showed her the Wikepedia on Esther Williams which was showing a photo of Esther at about 20.

"Yes, that's her. Look, see, she's still young."

"IN THE PHOTO, mom. Not today. Read this--born in 1922."

"Oh. I can't believe that."

So, we go back to the kitchen and she says, "I bet no one knows that."

"Everyone knows she's 80 something. I'll call someone and ask. I bet your sister knows." She scowlls at me as I pick up the phone and dial. "Hi, hey, do you by chance know how old Esther Williams is?"

"I guess she's about 40. Why?"

I am shocked and appauled. Has the world gone mad? Is this a dream? "When did you first see her movies?"

"I guess when I was young."

"How old?"

"When we were in school we used to go watch her in the movies."

"It's 2006. How old is Esther Williams."

Gasp! "She must be in her 80's."

"I am handing the phone to my mother. Tell her how old Esther Williams is."

My mother's face says it all. Esther, we now all agree, is 85.

Why do I feel NO relief, no sense of having won the battle. I feel guilty. I've taken away their false reality. What difference does it make if Esther Williams is 25, 40, or dead? I really did think she was dead actually. So, I guess I'm happy to find out she isn't. We should all be happy she's alive and well and recuperating from an infection for which she was hospitalized in sunny California.

Moral of the story: We are only as old as we feel until someone comes along and throws cold water with an old swimmer in it right in our lap.

(note 6.7.2013: RIP)

What was Once Lost But Now Is Found?

You may have answered Grace, and you'd be right, of course. But this week it is BLUE LOVIE. Seems BL was hiding near the front door under a big ball. Tricky bear.

WANTED!!

Some of us remember losing our favorite stuffed friend, truck, or doll when, against your mother's advise, we took the favored toy out of the house (e.g. say the favorite Lime Sherbert Strawberry Shortcake doll you lost at the ARCH!). The experience may have required you to have counseling later in life. Or maybe you are considering having counseling, unaware that the lost bunny or doll haunts your psyche to this day.

A certain little fella we all know has lost his Lovie. We knew it would happen one day. If you see a blue Lovie somewhere in the vacinity of Cape Girardeau, MO, let us know. Or if you see one for sale in your neighborhood, do give us a call. Here's what they look like. The distraught child would like the blue bear.

http://www.aspecialgift.com/lovies.asp

The Russians Are Coming!

Actually, the Russians have been here and gone. The business associates that B. works with in Russia came to St. Louis, rather than the Americans going over to Russia, as has been the habit. One Russian engineer and his translator [V. and N. the same folks featured in B's blog] were here for the last week. We visited the Wine Country, Lake St. , Louis complete with kayaking and pontoon party boat, the Arch, the Blues game, Halloween in Wildwood, and various restaurants. They were impressed with our fair city. I gained five pounds!

Problem with losing weight is that I always know where to find it, so it isn't actually lost.

The translation between me saying something to the Russian, the translator phrasing it into Russia, his reply in Russian, translated to English left plenty of time to eat whatever was in front of me. Over and over. And chase it with beer, scotch, wine.... The Halloween jokes brought to the door by the children trick or treating were NOT so funny after being translating into Russian. Consider how much is lost in the following joke:
Why doesn't Piglet have more friends? Answer: Because he plays with Pooh.
Not even after the Russians had LOTS of Anheiser Busch products.

In Russian, the joke makes NO sense. Explaining the humor is a lost cause. There were worse jokes, I won't even go into here. The Wildwood home owners had NEVER heard of asking the trick-or treaters for jokes. Can you imagine? GADZOOKS. Silly people in West County. Well, these people are actually Candians, but really they HAVE lived in the states for 50 years.

St. Louis is the only city we've lived in (and we've lived in seven or so) where trick or treaters tell jokes when they come to the door. But you have to ask them. The home owners were amazed that all the children had jokes ready. Geez.

Speaking of St. Louis traditions--we let the Russians go home without eating toasted ravioli or White Castle. I know I know, we are such poor tour guides and hosts. But the one remaining British chap who is here for the rest of the week has tried the toasted ravioli. He was not quite sure what to make of it.

I lost seven pounds while I was in England for thirty days. They NEED toasted ravioli. British food is only as good as the ethnic restaurant you find to eat in.

When all the visitors have gone back across the pond, I'm going on a diet. This week we've still got The Hill, The Loop, and White Castle to look forward to. And beer. Lots of beer.

Reminds of a Joke

I visited my nearly 80 - year-old mother this weekend, and she told me that her cell phone continues to ring. She has a cell phone designed for five-year-olds, the Firefly. It's cute as a bug. When we got it for her [she wanted a cell phone wihtout "all those buttons"], we programed in the two main numbers, for emergencies, and a handfull of others in her phonebook--which to this day she cannot use. But we call her every once in awhile on the cell phone, so she feels connected, not only to family but also to the twenty-first century. Everybody MUST have a cell phone. Even when they never leave the house, it seems.

Her Firefly, she explained, rings and rings for over an hour and she can't shut it off. "Did you try to turn it off?" we asked.

"How?"

I took the phone and turned it off, showing her the exact step of pushing the red (hang up) button. It went off. I noted that her description of the Firefly's continued ringing sound was not one the phone is programed to make. The Firefly has about five different "rings" and to me they all sound the same, but it is not a "ring." This was my first clue.

The phone needed charging, and I guessed maybe this was some signal the phone makes to say "plug me in." So, we plugged it in.

Two days later she calls me. "My phone is ringing again and I can't shut it off."

"Huh." I replied. "Have you tried to turn it off?" I asked.

"How?"

"Push the red "hang up" button."

"It doesn't go off and it won't stop ringing."

I can hear the soud its making over the phone. This is not a cell phone noise. But I play along.
I picked up my cell phone and called the Firefly. It rings, she answers. "It works," she shouts.

"Yes, but I still hear that noise. Is it doing that in your ear?"

Long pause. "Ya know," she starts, "it isn't coming from the cell phone."

What a surprise! I think to myself. "Where is it coming from?"

"I think it's that clock on the counter," she says. The clock that DOES NOT WORK, cannot be programmed by a normal human being [and I have a sixth sense for digital watches and clocks] and should not have batteries in it. But she insists it works --it's supposed to actually SPEAK the time when you push the button. Though, what use this feature is I cannot guess. And now the clock that is impossible to set for month and day and time is beeping. Obviously an alarm of some kind.

"Take the batteries out of it," I suggest. She wheels herself over to the counter and I hear a lot fo rattling. Finally, the beeping stops.

'It WAS the clock," she says. "I thought it was the phone."

This ranks right up there with the weekend before when she swears some one came into the house and took a shower early Sunday morning. Why would someone break in and take a shower? Silver or jewels maybe, but a shower? And after they took a shower they set the damn clock's alarm to go off in the middle of day and disguise itself as a cell phone.

House Hunting

Or is that House Haunting. Tis the season, after all.

We have been looking for a house. Something tres modern, preferably. But this new listing may be one to consider. If the price was just a bit lower; current listing price is $1.75 million.

More information here.

What's the opposite of color blind?

Answer: Tetrachromat---a woman who can see four distinct ranges of color, instead of the three that most of us live with.


Found this at Mirabilis---

"Dr. Neitz, who conducts his research with his wife Maureen, said only women have the potential for super color vision.

That's because the genes for the pigments in green and red cones lie on the X chromosome, and only women have two X chromosomes, creating the opportunity for one type of red cone to be activated on one X chromosome and the other type of red cone on the other one. In a few cases, women may have two distinct green cones on either X chromosome.

But it's unlikely, Dr. Neitz said, that all of the women with four types of color cones will have the potential for superior color vision, because for many, their two red cones will be so close to each other in the wavelengths they detect that they won't see things much differently than a three-color person does.

He estimated that 2 percent to 3 percent of the world's women may have the kind of fourth cone that lies smack between the standard red and green cones, which could give them a colossal range."

Interesting but it gets me not closer to knowing why my husband can NOT tell when I get my hair cut. It does explain other things...like knowing what ties go with what shirts.

Slow Movin' Money

My $5 bill came from Montana. It took 187 Days, 16 hrs, 41 mins. to travel a distance of 942 at an average speed of 5 miles per day.

Now I have to say goodbye to Abe and spend him wisely. I shouldn't be thinking about where to spend him, such that he will travel someplace far away and fast. The rules of Where's George strictly prohibit artificial spending to speed George, Abe, and gang around the country.

This particular $5 bill has a stamped message on it which reads:
See Where I've Been
Track Where I Go Next!
www.wheresgeorge.com

And the message is in red on the back near the left side of DI10724322A series 2003. If you happen to see Abe, say hello for me. Don't send him back.

Monday in My Dull Life

You know life is really dull when the most exciting thing you can do on a Monday is track your money via the internet to see WHERE GEORGE has been.

That's right. Little George on the $5 bill we received in Minnesota can be tracked online.
WHERE's GEORGE at its very own .com
Actually, in the case of my bill, it's Where's Abe?, but no one seems to care.

The site is very slow and almost causes me to lose patience and give up. But I wait.....
The rules for tracking George or Abe are specific. You can't go to the bank get a wad of bills and copy the serial numbers to the WG.com site. Nope. That's cheating. Where's George only wants to know where George goes in an organic, natural course of events. You can't mail George to arelative or friend across the country. That's cheating, too. Unless, I suppose it's the money you are sending to your nephew in Alaska.

Can't wait to see Where George goes from here~!

Visiting Gunther's World

The Minniapolis Science Center is one of the view venues for BodyWorlds.
An amazing exhibit. I spent the first half-hour trying not faint. Breathe! Breathe! In a crowded exhibitions hall, one room after another, people filed by the mannequin-esque figures. The silence of the crowd was noticeable, leading me to wonder if everyone was thinking what I was thinking: These people were once alive. And now they're....plastic.

The bodies are skin-less, posed, and artificial looking. Except they are not artificial and something about them is too real. One body is only muscles on a skeleton; another is only the nerves. In the middle of the rooms are glass cases showing organs, limbs, bones, tumorous ridden stomachs, black lungs, and babies of varying womb-ages. No one speaks, except quietly. In hushed tones they tell each other that Uncle Clinton has the same arthritic knees and Aunt Sally has a new hip just like that one. Most people just stare.

You can't touch, not that many people would probably. The muscles, arteries, and bones are plasticized anyway. The cadavers frozen and sliced look like giant slides of the body. They would feel like glass plates no doubt, too. One slice is a fat man next to a slice of a thin man. Notice the thick layer of FAT around the first man. Like the fat on pig when you buy pork at the story, only thicker.

I was not hungry when I left. I'd show you photos, so you could start a diet this week, but they don't let you take photos. You can buy a DVD. Or a book. The photos online are scant. You can google Body Worlds Gunther and sites pop up but none are worthy of the exhibit. I will find out if it is coming to town and let you know.

Read the original blog on Body Worlds here.

Down Iowa

The Walters home was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and rests on an overlook with great view of the Quasqueton river.

Check out the space saving bathroom! Obviously NOT a priority for Mr. Wright. The sink slides over on top of the toilet and frees up space in the bathtub/shower. It is not much bigger than a bathroom on a train. And those are the smalles bathrooms EVER.

At the river's edge is a boat house, also Wright designed. The property is vast and surrounded by woods for lots of privacy. Actually, the whole town of Quasqueton is a pretty private place. Took two phone calls from the highway and roads to find this place.















For views from someone else's trip go here:
http://www.peterbeers.net/interests/flw_rt/Iowa/Cedar_Rock/cedar_rock.htm

Up Iowa

Stopped along the route north in Iowa because we happened to see a sign for the Frank Lloyd Wright house. They have moved the Stockman/Wright house from its original site (white square house). We took the tour, but first we skipped across the street to the little village of Mission Style houses built along a creek. The owners share an idealic park-like setting joining their yards and the view of a waterfall. The homes were designed by like-minded architects in the Mission/Wright style. We found these quite by accident and thoroughly enjoyed the visit.

Minnie-Me in Minneapolis

In the lobby of the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, Minnie-Me poses with minnie art.

Minnie-Me enjoyed a tour of the Minneapolis College of Art and Design with current grad-art student, Kelley. In this photo, Minnie-Me is having a close look at the process for print making in the studio.

Everyone Likes Good Manners

I have never used a urinal. Most men, in western societies at least, use urinals all the time. I was unaware until today that there is such a thing as "good urinal manners." However, I played the Urinal Game and got 100% correct.

If I could get one of those attachments for female urination [emiction, miction, micturition, uresis] that allows one to pee standing up, I think I should be able to use the men's room. I do have good urinal manners. No one should mind.

Info on said attachments:
My Sweet Pee
Travel Mate
TM is my personal favorite, though I don't have one and have not tried one. But it comes with accessories--why not accessorize?
Shewee
The Whiz
P-Mate

I have been told that the line-persons for electric companies use a portable device that allows men or women up in the boom carts above the roadways, fixing the wires, to urinate in a comfortable, sanitary, and discreet manner. Why shouldn't we all have such a device available for easing the need to go?

Yisrayl?

Not that anyone could possibly believe someone who actually spells his name Y-I-S-R-A-Y-L, much less after he opens his mouth and predicts nuclear war. Yet, here he is, Yaweh's prophet for our time, saying just that. View the prophet.

End of Summer Cruise?

The perfect way to end a lovely summer: a cruise along the coast (or down the mudy Mississippi to New Orleans--before the hurricanes come) in your own 37' diesel cruiser. And not just ANY cruiser but the very boat that took Gilligan and the Skipper, too, on a "three hour tour." "A three hour tour." There are photos at that link of the S.S. Minnow if you are interested, interior and exterior. The cost for the perfect cruiser is $99,000, asking price. She looks seaworthy.

Caution: there are links to other formidable sailboats and the like. If you're prone to impusle buying, don't even go there.

"A House is Just a Place..."

"A house is just a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get more stuff." Wise words of a 21st Century philosopher.

The liquid airplane bomb threats reveals that most of us bring our stuff with us. Or at least we try to bring as much stuff with us as possible. The Washington Post examines the modern compulsion to never leave home without "it," concluding that we are a multi-tasking people, unable to be truly free because our attachment to stuff makes us both poor and overburdened.

I notice my own addiction to stuff when I pack the car nearly every time I leave the house: A book bag of books to return to the library, a mini-lunch cooler so my water doesn't boil in the parked car, a bag of medicines to take to my mother to refill her weekly dispenser, another to-do bag with a magazine in case I get stuck someplace, a sketch book and pencils. I like to have a digital camera along, too, but it requires a battery charger, as does my cell phone. If I'm teaching that day, I'll need my Land's End canvas briefcase overflowing with student papers and lecture notes. Invariably I have a meeting that day with a team of people I'm working with on a workshop which necessitates another canvas bag of notebooks and sources. In the back seat is an ever present red Scoth-plaid metal lunch box with wet ones, contact lubricant, nail file, napkins, a straw, a mirror, blush, a headband for "bad hair" afternoons, and anything else I can cram in and still close it.

The Post explains that we are all carrying more stuff, so I guess I'm not alone. The proof is found in the bookbags with wheels now manufactured not just for graduate students with 600 pounds of books, but for the grade school set. Children have actually been injured by their over filled bookbags.

Are we an insecure culture? Do we lack a basic trust in ourselves to make it back home? Home to our stuff?

I've tried this month to cut back on the stuff. I emptied my car, threw all the stuff in a box, and put only the ESSENTIAL stuff in the center console. I'm not even going to say what I think is essential. Trust me, it is. But I still cart those canvas bags for each occassion on the multitasking day ahead.

I have successfully made a habit of tossing out salt and ketchup. Unlike some people (you know who you are) who keep these "food" items lest you starve while your car hangs precipitously over the edge of cliff after you've skidded off the road during an ice storm, not to be found for five days; all because you read a story in the paper about the guy who lived for five days on ketchup and odd fries that were lodged in his seat cushions in an identical situation. I've seen your car parked next to mine, and you, too, could use a little unpacking.

A little advise on what not to carry is here at your finger tips. Good ol' online wiki of information. And other swell links can be found at 43 folders. Let's not stuff ourselves with too many links. Just empty your pockets and your glove compartment. Give it a month. If you need something, take it out of the box and return it to the car or bag. If you don't need it in 30 days, you don't need it. Free at last, free at last.....

Putting it off?

Let's give this a try. Here's an audio file for listening to 10+2*5 Work the Dasy

powered by ODEO
which gives you some of the details for moving through procrastination or just getting your work up and going.

I think I'll suggest it to students who are working on their English essays this semester.

Procrastination is Your Middle Name?

My middle name is Procrastination. I'm the Queen of the Land of Procrastination, in fact. I will put off just about anything, even good things, just because .... I can. My friend Pat C. says, "Never postpone pleasure." I've attempted to follow this advise whenever possible. For an award winning procrastinator, even pleasure is difficult to get started.

Merlin Mann has mastered a few anti-procrastination techniques that should help me. Here is part of what he thinks: "My favorite tonic for procrastination—which I have mentioned in passing previously—is what I call a dash, which is simply a short burst of focused activity during which you force yourself to do nothing but work on the procrastinated item for a very short period of time—perhaps as little as just one minute. By breaking a few tiny pebbles off of your perceived monolith, you end up psyching yourself out of your stupor, as well as making much-needed progress on your overdue project. Neat, huh?"

Mann is the master-mind behind loads of ongoing and completed projects. It is truly difficult to imagine he has ever had trouble with procrastination. But he makes some fine points about moving beyond the obstacle of getting started on dreaded projects, points he can only know via first hand experience. He obviously follows his own advise and has managed to squeeze onto the top one hundred blogs in the world list. No procrastination there.

I have used a similar anti-procrastination process with pretty high success. When I have something on the "to do" list that I want to do but never get 'round to, I make a plan to just do a teeny bit of it., which is often represented by "five." Here's an example: I want to work out and run more everyday. The present level of exercise is ZERO. To go from zip exercise to and hour is not going to happen. But from 0 to 5 mins. is not too difficult. From NO situps to 5 situps is EZ and can be accomplished during one commercial break, if necessary. From 15 pounds to 5 pounds is do-able. To read 5 pages won't take long, or 5 paragraphs. Even planning on starting some project or job in five mins. or five days might work. Pay off could be 5 Hershey's Kisses or five M&M's or five handfulls of popcorn or five hanfulls of M&m's. The take five process usually works for me. After doing five of something I go five more and five more over a period of time.

Like Mann's plan, once the job is started the fear is overcome and continuing on is much less threatening.

Day 3 in Russia

On Day 3 in Russia, B explores St. Petersburg by hydrafoil and wanders into a trendy Russian hookah bar. His journal has been posted.
http://meistertravel.blogspot.com/

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Last night was my first visit to the new Busch Stadium. Very Norman Rockwellish, actually. If he'd painted pictures of families going to the ballpark, it would be walking by the front entrance of the new stadium. Our tickets were fan-double-tastic, thanks to former Mayor S.'s generosity. We sat in section 250, and my seat was directly behind home plate. This section is in the Red Bird Club, so on the way to our seats we walked thru the club with all the good food, including a bakery....ooo la la the chocolate covered strawberries!

I was soaking in the view of the field and the park from my great seat when the folks in the row in front of us arrived. Naturally, an EXTRA extra large fan sat in front of me and felt the need to lean forward most of the game, so that I could only see his XXL back. He was wearing an ESPN polo shirt which had slogans written all over it. Slogans like: "A soft drink and a bag of chips." "Get on with your bad self." There were many more, but I only had seven innings to read them. They left when the Cardinals were down by 6.

Section 250 is a great place to expect foul balls. One man two seats and one row in front of me caught a ball hit by Cinncinati. I ducked every time a ball even looked like it would sail over the net. Not that I had anything to fear. The XXL fan made a perfect body guard. No ball would get by his girth.

I didn't have any of the delish snacks, though B. had a hot dog and two beers and J. got peanuts. I'd eaten four quarts of popcorn at home before I knew we had tickets that afternoon.

Even after Cinncinati's home runs and single hits put them 7 up, we held out hope that the Cardinals would rally. They tried. But like a bad deja vous, they filled all three bases as Pujols stepped up to the bat and ....struck out. We lost 7 to 1.

A lost game cannot dim the lights on my first ever visit, free tickets, free parking, balmy weather, and good company at St. Louis. But I sure won't be able to sit any place else now that I'm totally spoiled by section 250. Unless I get to sit in the green seats where they bring you food. And those party boxes are nice. Oh, and the game isn't bad either.

From Russia With Love

Bill's been to Russia and back again. Check out Where In The World
The journal entries are now a week old. Day 1 is posted; the rest to come day by day. Find out how he survives pickpockets and the trip home uncer tight airline security and more.

What's for Dinner?

Found this site RECIPE MATCHER
They provide a LENGTHY list of groceries and an interactive program to choose which ones you presently have on hand. Click on RECIPES and it pops up with those recipes for which you have ingredients.

It takes about five mins to click on each of the items in your pantry and fridge. I don't know how long it takes for the recipes to appear. I grew weary waiting, so I left the computer. When I returned 24 recipes had appeared. Several look quite good.

The pantry items are saved to your "account" (no cost) and are available for updates before you cook the next meal.

Remember This Guy?

I seem to recall, thinking back to 1979, that the Ayatollah Khomeine was the American Arch Enemy. During my college days at UMR, I had been harassed by Iranian students--lusty dark, swarthy young men, and I thought it was probably a no brainer: Ay. Khomeini was not a nice guy. I didn't know that he sought the destruction of the whole world.

"A passage from the Ayatollah Khomeini, quoted in an 11th-grade Iranian schoolbook, is revealing. 'I am decisively announcing to the whole world that if the world-devourers [i.e., the infidel powers] wish to stand against our religion, we will stand against their whole world and will not cease until the annihilation of all them. Either we all become free, or we will go to the greater freedom which is martyrdom. Either we shake one another's hands in joy at the victory of Islam in the world, or all of us will turn to eternal life and martyrdom. In both cases, victory and success are ours.'"

Today, I bet average folks, especially those born in the 70's and after, have no idea who he is. I hope we remember the pseudo-Islamic terrorists of the 21st century in the same way--which is to say, not at all. Although, some are saying that August 22, 2006 may be a memorable day, etching these monsters in the collective memory of the human race or what's left of it on August 23. This is holy of holy days for the faithful. It's the day Saladin entered Jerusalem in retaliation for the Christian "war" on Islam or Crusades. You remember the Crusades, don't you, from your history classes? Some say the blood in the streets after the Christians invaded Islamic cities was knee high. Others say, it was just a flesh wound, no blood [say, like, Thomas Madden, professor of History at SLU and author of the new book on the subject]. No matter what western Church Historians say about the Crusades, the Islamic memory is what counts--on August 22.

People in the know, probably most world leaders at this point, are aware that Iranian leader Mahmoud Ahmadinejad remembers the Crusades and is not happy. "Ahmadinejad is a strong believer in the Shi’ite tradition of a 12th imam, the so-called “hidden” Imam Mahdi who Allah has miraculously kept alive since his disappearance in 874 AD. As the story goes, Imam Mahdi will return at a time of great global chaos, oppression and bloodshed and usher in an era of (Islamic) justice."

On August 22, 2006, just weeks away, Iran will give its answer to the US and the world concerning Iran's nuclear development. They chose that day specifically--picked it out of a taqiya--a very shallow one (read: hat). Maybe he'll just say, "Well, Ok." But if he's anything like the really scary men who attended classes at US colleges in the 70's, now leading Iran with the benefit of an education from US universities, I think he might not be so agreeable. They are probably not going to use liquids on planes to deliver the message. Not now.

Blogged Down?

Technorati Profile:
Everything you ever wanted to know about the blogoshere but are too busy blogging to ask.
Sifry Alerts blog is the techno-wiz who leads the Technorati Profile and keeps track of the fifty million blogs [ and growing].

The MOST favorite blog in the WHOLE world is BoingBoing.
Now, ya know.
http://www.boingboing.net/

TOP 100 FILMS

I am not much of movie buff. It's a long time to sit. But curiously enu I have seen many of the top 100 films. FYI: bold type = I've seen the film-----

The American Film Institute’s 100 Greatest American Movies of All Time:

1. CITIZEN KANE (1941)

2. CASABLANCA (1942)

3. THE GODFATHER (1972)

4. GONE WITH THE WIND (1939)

5. LAWRENCE OF ARABIA (1962)

6. THE WIZARD OF OZ (1939)

7. THE GRADUATE (1967)

8. ON THE WATERFRONT (1954)

9. SCHINDLER'S LIST (1993)

10. SINGIN' IN THE RAIN (1952)

11. IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE (1946)

12. SUNSET BOULEVARD (1950)

13. THE BRIDGE ON THE RIVER KWAI (1957)

14. SOME LIKE IT HOT (1959)

15. STAR WARS (1977)

16. ALL ABOUT EVE (1950)

17. THE AFRICAN QUEEN (1951)

18. PSYCHO (1960)

19. CHINATOWN (1974)

20. ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST (1975)

21. THE GRAPES OF WRATH (1940)

22. 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY (1968)

23. THE MALTESE FALCON (1941)

24. RAGING BULL (1980)

25. E.T. THE EXTRA-TERRESTRIAL (1982)

26. DR. STRANGELOVE (1964)

27. BONNIE AND CLYDE (1967)

28. APOCALYPSE NOW (1979)

29. MR. SMITH GOES TO WASHINGTON (1939)

30. THE TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE (1948)

31. ANNIE HALL (1977)

32. THE GODFATHER PART II (1974)

33. HIGH NOON (1952)

34. TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD (1962)

35. IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT (1934)

36. MIDNIGHT COWBOY (1969)

37. THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES (1946)

38. DOUBLE INDEMNITY (1944)

39. DOCTOR ZHIVAGO (1965)

40. NORTH BY NORTHWEST (1959)

41. WEST SIDE STORY (1961)

42. REAR WINDOW (1954)

43. KING KONG (1933)

44. THE BIRTH OF A NATION (1915)

45. A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE (1951)

46. A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1971)

47. TAXI DRIVER (1976)

48. JAWS (1975)

49. SNOW WHITE AND THE SEVEN DWARFS (1937)

50. BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID (1969)

51. THE PHILADELPHIA STORY (1940)

52. FROM HERE TO ETERNITY (1953)

53. AMADEUS (1984)

54. ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT (1930)

55. THE SOUND OF MUSIC (1965)

56. M*A*S*H (1970)

57. THE THIRD MAN (1949)

58. FANTASIA (1940)

59. REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE (1955)

60. RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK (1981)

61. VERTIGO (1958)

62. TOOTSIE (1982)

63. STAGECOACH (1939)

64. CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND (1977)

65. THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS (1991)

66. NETWORK (1976)

67. THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE (1962)

68. AN AMERICAN IN PARIS (1951)

69. SHANE (1953)

70. THE FRENCH CONNECTION (1971)

71. FORREST GUMP (1994)

72. BEN-HUR (1959)

73. WUTHERING HEIGHTS (1939)

74. THE GOLD RUSH (1925)

75. DANCES WITH WOLVES (1990)

76. CITY LIGHTS (1931)

77. AMERICAN GRAFFITI (1973)

78. ROCKY (1976)

79. THE DEER HUNTER (1978)

80. THE WILD BUNCH (1969)

81. MODERN TIMES (1936)

82. GIANT (1956)

83. PLATOON (1986)

84. FARGO (1996)

85. DUCK SOUP (1933)

86. MUTINY ON THE BOUNTY (1935)

87. FRANKENSTEIN (1931)

88. EASY RIDER (1969)

89. PATTON (1970)

90. THE JAZZ SINGER (1927)

91. MY FAIR LADY (1964)

92. A PLACE IN THE SUN (1951)

93. THE APARTMENT (1960)

94. GOODFELLAS (1990)

95. PULP FICTION (1994)

96. THE SEARCHERS (1956)

97. BRINGING UP BABY (1938)

98. UNFORGIVEN (1992)

99. GUESS WHO'S COMING TO DINNER (1967)

100. YANKEE DOODLE DANDY (1942)

Empire of the Dead

An unusual tourist stop, maybe, but for those with more than their share of interest in the macabre the Empire of the Dead in Paris has to top the "places to go" list. Somehow, I missed this tour when in France. The photos on the visitors site are less than ivniting. Yet, I can't help wondering what it must be like to walk through a narrow passage lined with skulls and bones of those who have died from the Black Plague or smallpox epidemics.

In 1418, the city had to find a burial site for 50,000 corpses that accumulated in just one week. They were buried in mass graves around Paris. Three centuries later the walls of surrounding cellars caved in and the bones spilled out. An unused quarry south of the heart of Paris, near the now bustling Left Bank, opened its cool, dark, emptiness to the remains of hundreds of thousands of skeletal remains. For years, the bones were carted after night fall, stacked, and left unmarked in the cavernous belly under Paris.

The fee to tour the underground grave site is about $5 (30+francs). Not heavily guarded, the catacombs are a popular spot for musicians and street performaners to frequent. On the feast of the patron saint of miners--in France this is Saint Barbe--the School of Mines enters the tomb for one "hell" of a party, with permission from authorities. If the Rolla School Mines (UMR), were do such a thing in Missouri, there'd be hell to pay. But in Paris, "C'est la vie!"

Tourists have been known to take away a souvenir or two. No one keeps a tally of the number of bones, though some belong to some of France's noted artists, writers, composers, etc. Some people send the bones back or leave them in another Parisian locale with a note.

If you are of French decent, your ancestors could be "buried" in this plot. Beats the heck out of visiting any cemetery on Gravois. Good luck finding a list of names to check. The Empire's registration desk is skimpy on the details of its clientele.

If the Asian Bird Flu hits St. Louis, I suggest the old mines under The Hill as a suitable repository for the bones of our dearly beloved. Imagine the possibilities for tours in three hundred years.

How I'd Like To Go Across the Sea to Ireland

I don't really need an excuse to go to Ireland, but if I did I might use this one:
The International Sr. Fidelma Society is hosting an event in Fidelma's honor.

Ireland's international best selling fictional detective celebrated in a

weekend convention by her `hometown'

September 8, 9 and 10, 2006

Cashel Palace Hotel, Cashel, Co Tipperary, Ireland

How much fun is that? Okay, maybe not for everyone. But if you've read Fidelma's stories you know that a the whole world of religious life in Ireland about the 7th century is a whole new world of fascination. One of the most interesting aspects to the stories is the history of the Church in Ireland and its rather caustic relationship with Rome. If the Celtic bishops had held their ground, the Church would have experienced a split long before Martin Luther.

Sr. Fidelma is a young woman, sister to the King of Cashel, and a respected daleigh of the courts of ancient Ireland. Wherever she goes, murder happens, and she is called on to solve the mystery of the crime. She's attractive, sharp witted, brilliant, intuitive, and in love with a Saxon monk, Eadulf. In ancient Ireland, women held the same rights as men and were equal in all things. By law. No need for women sufragettes. And Fidelma's love for Eadulf is not a problem for the Celtic Church, which allowed for men and women in religous life--those who have taken vows--to live a celibate life or to marry. And the religious communities honored the choices of each one.

Now, back to Ireland.... A friend accidentally forwarded an email meant for someone else to my email account. It offered links to various places to go in Ireland. Naturally, I took her mistake to be a sign from God that I should start planning for a trip to Ireland. Who would not want to be immersed in the cozy charm of an ancient castle on the sea.

Well, I would. Doesn't matter who else. I think I was born fourteen centuries too late. Though I am fond of flushing toilets and hot showers. So, to visit and experience another age is even better.

Sure'n there are even more places to go in Ireland than the Aron Islands. So, I think I'll have a look 'round and find them all. Who am I to ignore a sign from God!

New Kid on the Block

Tuned into Donnybrook last night--St. Louis PBS "talk" show for "intelligent debate." I never watch the show, as a rule. It isn't that I don't like Bill, Ray, Wendy, and the other two whose names escape me, but I never get much out of listening to them "debate" a single issue. Mostly, they exchange hot air.

Wasn't I surprised to see Colleen Caroll Campbell sharing a spot at the table with them on this week's show as a guest host. The IQ average doubled. Ray never has anything but his own inflated opinion [of himself] of the issue to add to the discussion. And Bill never really seems sure about anything he says. I always have the most hope for Wendy, who is never afraid to stand up to the loudest voice at the table and shout them down. Not that I have clue what her views actually are, but she asks good questions.

Colleen, author of The New Faithful, is not only smarter than the average bear, she's not even in the same forest. Her articles are always insightful, and she's young enough to be able to remember the statistics, scientific backup, and ethical grounds for everything she wants to argue for or against. She stood her ground and not only remained the voice of reason during the show, but calmly spoke to her table-mates to get them back on track. Even when she raised her voice, the others still seemed to be shouting without good cause.

I hope they invite her back, which would say more about the hosts' collective IQ than any "discussion" they can ever have without her.

A Well-mended Boy

Post-surgical recovery results in and doctors say he's better than new. And with a whole lot of renewed energy. So, this past week he had these ultimate St. Louis super experiences. We’ve been busy. The Zoo, Grant’s Farm, and the Museum of Transportation in one fun-filled week. By far the over-riding favorite were the trains at MoT all the way. He cried for a mile after pulling out of the parking lot, “Bu, bu, tootoo.” [trans: Bye Bye Choochoo]

I think I still like Grant's Farm the best. Free beer and all. Though, I can't say the ginger/ginsing/cherry beer is even BEER, free or not.

Erin Body In Concert

Erion Body Band in concert at Innsbrook. Great performace, as usual. Night photos a bit grainy, though.

Time for a Cool Change --ooo ooo if there's one thing in my life that's missing...... humming Little River Band

After three years with the same ol' blog template, I am ready for cool change in the look of things. I'll link on the right to ol' "baratin-debordante" and copy a few recent posts to get this one started.

In addition, I hope the new blog site will actually send me email from readers' comments. I have not been able to make that happen on the original blog. And believe me I've tried everything.

Now, maybe you recall Cool Change by Littel River Band, but in case you don't here are the words. It's not a bad song. Ok; cheesey a little; but hey, parts of it have some merit; and it's catchy.

If there's one thing in my life that's missing
It's the time I spend alone
Sailing on the cool and bright clear waters
There's lots of those friendly people
Showin me ways to go
And I never want to lose your inspiration
Time for
a cool change...
I know that it's time
for a cool change
Now that my life
is so pre-arranged
I know that it's time
for a cool change
Well I was born in the sign of water
And it's there that I feel my best
The albatross and the whales
they are my brothers
It's kind of a special feeling
When you're out on the sea alone
Starin' at the full moon
like a lover
Time for
a cool change...
I know that it's time
for a cool change
Now that my life
is so prearranged
I know that it's time
for a cool change
Well I've never been romantic
And sometimes I don't care
I know it may sound selfish
But let me breathe the air
If there's one thing in my life that's missing
It's the time that I spend alone
Sailing on the cool and bright clear waters
It's kind of a special feeling
When you're out on the sea alone
Staring at the full moon like a lover
Time for
a cool change...
I know that it's time
for a cool change
Now that my life is so prearranged
I know that it's time
for a cool change


FINAL POSTING FROM orignal debordante-baratin

Children's Hosptial---Day two

(see post of June 6 for Jon's trip to the Zoo)

We caught up with Jon after his surgery late Monday afternoon to see what he'd have to say about the experience. At 22-months-old, Jon is a boy of few words; those words are "fwuck," fuh-fwuck," "nunununu," "topmuhma" {translation: truck, fire truck, no, no no no, and stop mama}. But if you try real hard you can read his mind in his facial expressions. And this is what he has to say....

I should've known something was up when daddy came in to get me before the birds started singing in the morning. Usually, they are happy when I let the sun come up before I call them to get me out of bed. But this morning, there was dad, waking me up and getting my shoes on. Where were we going so early? I wondered.

When the big glass doors magically opened and I heard the choo choo's whistle, I thought: I've been here before. More magic doors and a ride up on ewhawaiter, i think they call it, to a big open hall with lots of chairs. These friendly people in white coats asked how I was.

What are they thinkin'? I wondered. It's early, where's my juice, and somebody get me some cereal. But all they offered was this stiff piece of cloth with funny pictures of kids on it. Off came my clothes and on went the funny, stiff, cloth. Then, they let me push this big cart through more magic doors that opened in front of us. The cart was heavy, and cold, but I pushed it right through the doors. I looked back to see if mommy and daddy thought I did a good job and they were gone. What the......?

Then some nice lady picked me up and told me they'd be back but I had to lie down on a bed. Yeah, right, I thought. No way. So I screamed as loud as I could and this hood came down over my face with funny air.

The next thing I know, there's mommy. And boy, does my back hurt. My throat hurts , too. I couldn't even keep my eyes open. But mommy and daddy and grammy and pops and nana were all there when I opened them again. We were floating down the bright hall way in and out of magic doors. When they lifted me up and put me in the big bed I could not even believe how much it hurt. I made a big sad face. The saddest I could manage. And someone asked if I wanted some juice. What good is juice? What have you people done? I got the impression everyone knew something I didn't.

I heard them talking, though. The doctor came in and said everything was fine. (And he's a doctor? How does he know? Ask me...i can tell you things are not fine!). They believed him, of course. I couldn't move, and things are fine. I was stuck face down at the wrong end of the bed and my arms wouldn't work and I couldn't move because it hurt. The doctor, brilliant guy, suggested I might need to be morphed. Or maybe he'd give me morph. Whatever it is, I felt better right away.

The big wad of bandaid across my back is pretty uncomfortable and my throat hurts like crazy and they are pretty determined to make me drink an ocean of juice, but I'm ok otherwise. My thumb is glowing red and this screen next to my bed blinks and beeps when I tap my fingers against the glowing red light on my thumb. My dad jumps up and looks when I do it, so it's fun to do every now again. The other tubes taped to my feet and arms aren't any fun. And they don't seem to do anything unless the nurse comes and pushes buttons and squishes something into the machine.

I bet today will be better. I've got train movies and truck books to look at. I think there are dogs on the roof and lots of kids to play with. Maybe I'll get morphed again.

[note: Jon had surgery for a double aortic arch]