Run along the island shore. Soak up the early morning sunshine. Lunch on the beach. Fun in the sun. Relax poolside. Mild Florida winter temps. Fresh seafood, vegetables, prepared by the french chef. Tomorrow replay the whole day.
31 January 2007
24 January 2007
Relatively speaking---
I want a president with good judgement. The president doesn't have to have be the smartest person on the planet because the president has a steady stream of advisors with lots of information, numbers, and plans. The president needs to have good judgement in order to sift through all the muck and make the right choice.
Has Hillary Clinton forgotten that we all know she married Bill Clinton? That does not show good judgement. And we remember his presidency and the endless stream of media attention that distracted from governing our nation with reagrd to his sexual exploits. Definitely a lack of good judgement in the whole family.
Is it too much to ask that we have a choice to elect someone who is not related to anyone who has ever been president? I'm tired of Kennedy relations, Bush relations, and Clinton relations. I think I might be tired of Arkansas, Texas, and the North Eastern states, as well. Californian is a weary topic, too. Maybe Indiana or Illinois or Kansas are states that breed people who have good judgement and have no genetic relation to anyone who has ever been president. We can only hope.
Has Hillary Clinton forgotten that we all know she married Bill Clinton? That does not show good judgement. And we remember his presidency and the endless stream of media attention that distracted from governing our nation with reagrd to his sexual exploits. Definitely a lack of good judgement in the whole family.
Is it too much to ask that we have a choice to elect someone who is not related to anyone who has ever been president? I'm tired of Kennedy relations, Bush relations, and Clinton relations. I think I might be tired of Arkansas, Texas, and the North Eastern states, as well. Californian is a weary topic, too. Maybe Indiana or Illinois or Kansas are states that breed people who have good judgement and have no genetic relation to anyone who has ever been president. We can only hope.
20 January 2007
Another Shade of Pale: the Other White Meat
I think I'll pass on those juicy BBQ ribs. After reading the Smithfield article my taste buds are still numb. I didn't need the photo they show, either.
I hear Australian cattle ranchers give red wine to their beefy herd. If red wine tastes good with a steak, they thought WHY not go double or nothing. Like free range chickens, these will be HAPPY cows.
[via: Boing site; Mirabilis, respectively]
I hear Australian cattle ranchers give red wine to their beefy herd. If red wine tastes good with a steak, they thought WHY not go double or nothing. Like free range chickens, these will be HAPPY cows.
[via: Boing site; Mirabilis, respectively]
Don't Delay Happiness
Reliving childhood memories is sweet. Here's a clip from a movie I watched over and over and over as a child. Shirley's feet barely move. I thought she was always dancing.
this post has been edited to direct you to a new ST movie
this post has been edited to direct you to a new ST movie
13 January 2007
Hello Mudder,
These are photos taken with the new camera, explained below. But FIRST!!!
Everyone say hello to Muzzy. C'mon. Just click on "comment" below. Muzzy has found this blog and enjoys reading it. She says I should write a book. As long as I don't write it about her--but she didn't say that! To see the comments, Mum, just click on comments and they should pop up. To add your own, follow the directions.
I have a new camera. A Fujifilm V10. There is nearly NO delay time when you snap a photo. Here's a sample of the first pictures. The new foosball table is awesome. The little winter village is quaint, and that is the Great Wall of China behind the houses. Nice effect.
I can't wait to go out and take s'more pictures. The old digital Kodak is finding a new home with a graduate art student in Minneapolis. The fuji V10 has a 3" display screen--that's the same size as the camera itself. It's just the size of a a deck of cards. The Cnet link is a keeper; they review all kinds of stuff. Aaaaanyway, the V10 only has x3 zoom and I wanted x6 or more, but those are pricey and large. So, I went for FAST, excellent photos, and orange. Mine's orange. Nice.
Just When...
Just when I've figured out most of the idiosyncracies of Blogger and posting, they invite me to RE-up with the NEW and IMPROVED version. One click and they do all the work. I'm looking for differences on this build a post menu....no, don't see any. Looks the same. Well, now, there's a post options icon to click on which allows or disallows backlinks and comments. Ok. And a place to change the date and time. A place for labeling the post--in addition to the title.
I'll check the template.
I'll check the template.
10 January 2007
What's Next? St. Oscar (Wilde)?
I hear Catholics warning others about one author or another, some condemned by the church or some who have written things opposed to Church teaching. Take for example Fr. Anthony DeMellow S.J., whose books and lectures were banned from local Catholic bookstores a few years ago. Too Eastern in his thought, the Vatican judged.
What about the "poet, playwright, gay icon and deathbed convert to Catholicism," who " has been paid a rare tribute by the Vatican"?
"Wilde [as in Oscar] (1854-1900) had long been regarded with distaste by the Vatican — a dissolute and disgraced homosexual who was sentenced for acts of gross indecency over his relationship with Lord Alfred Douglas." And now, one of the pope's closest aids has included quotations from Wilde in a new book. "Father Sapienza said that he had devoted the lion’s share of Provocations: Aphorisms for an Anti-conformist Christianity to Wilde because he was a 'writer who lived perilously and somewhat scandalously but who has left us some razor-sharp maxims with a moral.'"
In contrast, the congragation for the Doctrine of the Faith condemned Fr. DeMello, stating, "But already in certain passages in these early works and to a greater degree in his later publications, one notices a progressive distancing from the essential contents of the Christian faith."
The final statement of the documet regarding Fr. De Mello warns: "With the present Notification, in order to protect the good of the Christian faithful, this Congregation declares that the above-mentioned positions are incompatible with the Catholic faith and can cause grave harm." Have they read Fr. Sapienza's new book? Have they read any biography of Oscar Wilde?
Mr. Wilde was, however, not a Jesuit. And we all know how dangerous those Ignation warriors can be. While the Church later lifted the ban on Fr. De Mello's work, they did issue a word of caution to readers who may not understand the full context of his lectures and teachings. And now they have lightened their opinion of dear Oscar, a gay rascal, albeit a deathbed Catholic.
What about the "poet, playwright, gay icon and deathbed convert to Catholicism," who " has been paid a rare tribute by the Vatican"?
"Wilde [as in Oscar] (1854-1900) had long been regarded with distaste by the Vatican — a dissolute and disgraced homosexual who was sentenced for acts of gross indecency over his relationship with Lord Alfred Douglas." And now, one of the pope's closest aids has included quotations from Wilde in a new book. "Father Sapienza said that he had devoted the lion’s share of Provocations: Aphorisms for an Anti-conformist Christianity to Wilde because he was a 'writer who lived perilously and somewhat scandalously but who has left us some razor-sharp maxims with a moral.'"
In contrast, the congragation for the Doctrine of the Faith condemned Fr. DeMello, stating, "But already in certain passages in these early works and to a greater degree in his later publications, one notices a progressive distancing from the essential contents of the Christian faith."
The final statement of the documet regarding Fr. De Mello warns: "With the present Notification, in order to protect the good of the Christian faithful, this Congregation declares that the above-mentioned positions are incompatible with the Catholic faith and can cause grave harm." Have they read Fr. Sapienza's new book? Have they read any biography of Oscar Wilde?
Mr. Wilde was, however, not a Jesuit. And we all know how dangerous those Ignation warriors can be. While the Church later lifted the ban on Fr. De Mello's work, they did issue a word of caution to readers who may not understand the full context of his lectures and teachings. And now they have lightened their opinion of dear Oscar, a gay rascal, albeit a deathbed Catholic.
11 December 2006
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.
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.
03 December 2006
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.
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.
18 November 2006
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)
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.
12 November 2006
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
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
06 November 2006
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.
02 October 2006
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.
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.
28 September 2006
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.
15 September 2006
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---
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.
12 September 2006
Slow Movin' Money
My $5 bill came from
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.
11 September 2006
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~!
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~!
06 September 2006
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.
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
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