Posted on January 7, 2005
As the new year settles in, I’m inclined to hibernate, not because of January’s arrival but because of the cold temperatures, snowy conditions, and gloomy skies that accompany it. The good news is that it makes for a lot more reading time in the evenings. Some of it is even quality reading time.
For instance, I just finished The Patron Saint of Liars by Ann Patchett. I considered it quality reading, although I absolutely disliked the heroine and struggled to finish to book. But Patchett has written one of my recent favorites, Bel Canto, so I cut her slack.
I’m also reading my weekly copy of “The Nation,” and if you’ve followed any of my mini-essays you probably understand why. I call it quality reading for those politically challenged people living in blue states. (This is absolutely the last time I will refer to the polarizing blue/red label!)
Finally, I read the mail that ends up on my office chair, delivered by Earl. When he reads an article that interests him, he often marks it up and passes it on. This morning’s collection included the “Berrien County Sportsman’s Club, Inc. Newsletter,” which is printed – interestingly enough — on bright pink paper.
The current issue provided helpful hints, a la Heloise. One is printed here for your consideration: “For icy door steps in freezing temperatures, get warm water and put Dawn® dishwashing liquid in it. Pour it all over the steps. They won’t refreeze.”
Earl even went to the supermarket this afternoon to get the correct detergent, and I plan to try this hint in the morning. Who knows! It could prove that the Sportsman’s Club newsletter offers the highest quality reading of all!
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Posted on January 6, 2005
I have long since put away my lawn furniture; it rests snug and dry in the garage, waiting for my spring tulips to beckon. I have no need for it with four inches of Michigan’s finest snow covering everything.
But if I still lived in Chicago, it would be different. People in the Windy City use their lawn chairs all year long. I was reminded of this as I shoveled my front entrance and walkway this morning, and I promised myself to check the evening news for instances of lawn chair rage.
For the uninitiated, there is a rule in Chicago that goes like this: If I’m parked on a side street and snow falls, and I’m the one who shovels out my car and neatly clears the space it occupied, then I am entitled to have that space available when I return. I tell the world that the space is mine by putting a couple lawn chairs in it. And woe to the person who moves them.
Truthfully, this rule is not found in any City Council ordinances or police manuals. In fact, last year the Honorable Mayor Daley went on television to point this out after there had been several altercations over cleared parking spaces. He noted that people who moved someone else’s chairs to park their cars could not be ticketed or towed, as long as the shoveled space met all other parking regulations. You know, fire hydrants, loading zones, etc. This did not sit well with the shoveling lawn chair owners; short of taking matters into their own hands they had no legal leg – er, chair leg — to stand on.
Nevertheless, if I still lived in Chicago, I would respect the rule; and it has nothing to do with treating others as I would like to be treated. Rather, you never know if the person who set those chairs there is bigger and surlier than you. There are just some things you don’t mess with, and the lawn chair rule-that-is-really-only-a-tradition is definitely one of them.
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Posted on January 5, 2005
Tomorrow is Hugh Thompson’s birthday; and while I’m not even sure how old he will be or what he plans to do to celebrate, he has been on my mind today. No particular reason, except perhaps that among my friends and acquaintances, his birthday is the first to greet every new year. And, because I’m usually still writing thank you notes and belated holiday greetings to those who sent me cards, I rarely remember to wish Hugh the best on his day.
But I haven’t forgotten that, when I was first divorced years ago, Hugh made sure his home was a welcome respite when other couples dropped me from their guest lists. I haven’t forgotten that Hugh makes the meanest vodka gimlets in the world. His wife, Judi, and I have had more than a few; and they are always smooth going down.
I haven’t forgotten how many times through the years that I’ve eaten in Judi and Hugh’s home, that we’ve played card games and word games (Hugh could always beat me) and board games, that we attended each other’s family events, and that Hugh is definitely one of the most kind-hearted people I know.
He isn’t rich, and he doesn’t have a lot of credentials after his name. And, frankly, that doesn’t matter at all. What matters is that I consider the husband of a friend a friend in his own right. So it’s about time I remember his birthday. Happy Birthday, Hugh.
See more 10 Minutes in category Nostalgia, Special Events
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Posted on January 4, 2005
Ever notice how a glitch in one part of your life spills over to many other parts? For instance, banking. It’s no longer just a matter of going into the bank and closing an account by writing a check for the balance. Oh no!
You might have automatic debits (Think house payment here) or credits (Think payroll deposits here), and those providers must be notified. Otherwise, you could be in default of payment. (Think bad mark on your credit here). Then there’s your ATM card and your debit card that also must be cancelled, since the account they are attached to is no longer open.
Or what about electricity? When the power goes out – as it does in most neighborhoods from time to time – there’s an audible groan at our house. With three computers, ovens on timers, and electric clock radios, it’s a major restoration project. In addition, our garage doors don’t go up, our sump pump doesn’t go on, and our burglar alarm doesn’t go off. It’s even worse than switching to Daylight Savings time each spring, because at least you know it’s coming.
Then there’s health insurance. When I changed providers, I needed a new membership card, which didn’t arrive in time for my annual physical. So I explained the problem to the doctor’s office administrator, who was sympathetic and agreed to wait to bill me. While I appreciated her understanding, it’s still something I need to follow-up on.
Email addresses also pose problems. I recently gave up one Internet provider for another and, unlike the trends in cell phones, I could not keep the name I’d used for years. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how many places and people have the old name. Of course, I sent an email alert to everyone I thought of, but when I stopped getting various email zines or reports, I realized I had hardly scratched the surface. The stores where I bought on line or the opinion polls I answered have lost track of me.
After spending a lot of time last year making various changes, I plan to sit out 2005 in the mode of the status quo. I’m keeping the same residence, the same telephone number, the same bank, the same car, the same hairstyle, and the same mate. Especially the same mate.
See more 10 Minutes in category Annoyances, Things to Ponder
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Posted on January 3, 2005
This afternoon I had a massage for the first time in a couple years. And, after only a few minutes under the masseuse’s skilled hands, I wondered why I waited so long between appointments.
I’ve been a devotee of massage for approximately twenty years, having had my first experience when I still had children at home and more reasons than you could imagine to have someone work the kinks from my body. Today, I’m less stressed, but the massage was no less enjoyable.
The experience is like a ballet between two people with the masseuse as the lead dancer. Under dim lighting and gentle music – in this case, a CD of soft piano — the leader stretches and strokes the client’s limbs, moving them this way and that, as if creating certain poses, then returning the arm or leg to the resting position. There’s a certain physical beauty to it all. There’s a certain mental beauty as well.
In print, it sounds rather hokey; but, as the masseuse worked on me, all I could think of was how the room and the music and the lead dancer melded together. When my hour was up, I literally floated out the door.
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Posted on January 2, 2005
It’s time to take down all the Christmas decorations, the tree, and the lights and squirrel them away for another year. We’re not ones to leave things up long into the new year, so this morning Earl and I dragged the ornament boxes, containers for the lights, and packaging for the train set from the basement, just as we had done in November.
When I was a child, my Mother kept the Christmas decorations in a big brown ugly box laden with years of tape to keep it shut from holiday to holiday. I thought that box was magical, even though the contents were far less expensive and far more plain than the things that grace our tree today. But it really wasn’t about the ornaments; it was about believing. Believing that we would have a wonderful time together.
We didn’t always, since Christmas is also often a time of stress and unduly high expectations. But we tried.
This year, as I remove the evidence of our recent holiday, I am struck with how wonderful the entire season has been. And, given the number of personalities that were involved, believing that we would have a grand time together didn’t necessarily guarantee it. Yet, not one cross word was spoken, at least within range of my hearing.
With my sons coming to be with us, Earl’s family and mine joined together for Christmas Day with much food and laughter and a gift or two for everyone. It was the first time ever we’d all been together, in one place at the same time. So as I pack my own version of Mother’s “big brown ugly box,” I smile. I’m no longer a child, but this year made a true believer out of me.
See more 10 Minutes in category Me/Family, Nostalgia, Special Events
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Posted on January 1, 2005
New Year’s Day is the equivalent of an odometer on an automobile. Slowly the last number changes, and occasionally more than the last number, as we track the years and check the tread on our lives. This New Year’s Day falls on Saturday, so the world has two days off before returning to the road.
In past years, I’ve made copious lists of things to do in the upcoming months. The lists are always alphabetical and organized; but, because I rarely look at them once I’ve completed the exercise, they are also pretty useless. The waning weeks of November usually reveal that about half of the items on the lists were accomplished in the course of time while half were not. Having put them on a list in the first place made little difference.
I’ve read that the best way to accomplish the things on a list is to keep them visible. Some time management experts suggest putting them on file cards and studying them daily. Others say the list should be tacked up at eye level as a constant reminder. And I bet there is some management guru out there who advocates memorizing it.
But what I’ve decided to do this year is to forego the exercise altogether and not make a list for 2005. Instead, I’m creating a mantra, one that is brief and doesn’t need explanation. One that is important only to me. One that I plan to make into my monitor’s screen saver. Four words: Write more, drink less!
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Posted on December 22, 2004
This column will return on January 1, 2005. In the meantime, Anne hopes you have a wonderful holiday, regardless of which religious traditions are celebrated in your home.
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Posted on December 15, 2004
At the end of October, I wrote a mini-essay about the value of the sayings displayed on sweatshirts today. In that essay, I provided a list of sweatshirt graffiti I liked, but didn’t own.
But, as I packed for my recent trip to NYC and was deciding what sweatshirts to bring along, I realized that the ones I actually own make a statement about me. So, while I didn’t bring them all to Manhattan, here are the ones that are closest to my heart right now.
There’s the blue sweatshirt with one word on it. The one word is ‘Fargo’, which is where my other son, the university professor lives. I bought this sweatshirt in the Fargo International Airport; and, because it was in an airport gift shop, I paid a pretty penny for it too. But I fell in love with the simplicity of the design; and where I live nobody has one like it. That gives it extra points.
Then there’s the sweatshirt I bought on our trip to Alaska last June. It too is blue but instead of one simple word across the front, it has reindeer boldly embossed in white. Again, where I live it is an original. Next I have a gray sweatshirt, created as a joke, that says “Lady Boss,” which I am. And the red sweatshirt that features a basket of flowers embroidered on its front. There is no special message here, other than I like the colors.
And, finally, this time of year is not Christmas unless I drag out an old tried and true favorite. It’s red with a faded sleigh across the front and the words, “I still believe.”
What could be more honest than that?
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Posted on December 14, 2004
I’ve worked at Fred Flare, Inc. for two days now; and, believe me, Santa and his elves have some stiff competition.
I don’t know how large a workshop Santa has or how many full time elves punch the clock each morning, but I’ve got to believe he has a sophisticated operation in a state-of-the-art warehouse at the North Pole. Fred’s warehouse – all 1500 square feet of it — is in Brooklyn; from here, the dozen staff members, none of them little elves, and owners Keith and Chris take orders for any of their more than one thousand items. Maybe Mr. Claus has been at it longer, but Fred’s staff members know how to assemble, wrap, tie a ribbon, and label with the best.
Product is crammed on shelves everywhere. People are crammed at workstations or desks. Paperwork abounds. So do corrugated boxes, since Fred does not deliver his gifts by sleigh and reindeer. Rather, he depends on UPS to get things to their destination by Christmas.
On any given day, approximately 400 orders come in via phone, fax, or through the web site. And on any given day, the same number of orders goes out the door, as it is a Fred objective to ship within 24 hours. Even those busy elves get to stockpile for their one night of the year.
So fingers fly, heads nod, eyes dart. Check this. Tape that. Put it here. Double-check it. Grab a bite of lunch and do it all over again. It’s enough to make one not complain about wrapping a few gifts to put under a single tree.
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