Posted on August 30, 2004
The Republican National Convention begins today, and I promised myself I would give it as much attention as I gave the DNC. It will be hard, but I can do it. In fact, I need to do it, since Earl will surely be watching and taking notes.
He and I are the equivalent of an ice cube and a match living together under the best of circumstances. If he is the ice cube and gets too close, I will melt him. If I get too close, he will snuff me out. There is a ying and yang about this that makes me comment often that he and I are a living example of democracy in action. We agree to disagree, and more often than not cancel each other’s votes at the polls; but we live in relative harmony most of the time. Perhaps this is because both of us are only children, nobody else would live with either of us, and neither of us supports anarchy.
This week is Earl’s party’s chance to shine, but I shall be watching so as to have ammunition for discussions between now and Election Day in November. After all, I view myself as liberal enough to take time to study the other side and come to a factual conclusion.
Although I suspect I still won’t vote for W.
See more 10 Minutes in category 2004 Election, Me/Family
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Posted on August 29, 2004
Cliches about change abound: Change is the only constant; the more things change the more they stay the same, it’s time to change your tune, change hands, change will do you good; change for the better, don’t be short-changed, unless you’re the lead dog the view never changes.
And what do these cliches mean?
For me they mean we had better be ready. We cannot rely on today’s rules and regulations. Instead, we must accept that, because tomorrow may be different from today, the beliefs we hold about today may need to be different too.
It’s a tough concept to grasp, since we don’t know what alternative concepts to invest in.
What should we do? Wander aimlessly in the desert of questioning? Seek shelter in the comfort of what was and ignore the growth potential we need to explore? Bury our heads in the sand and ignore the future?
I believe we need to act as if we are undressed, vulnerable, eager to learn. The question is how to operationalize it. And here is a suggestion: Pretend you are an infant, eager to learn what is in the world of today. Absorb everything without predisposition, without couture clothing so-to speak, and wait for that which nourishes you, which offers sustenance. Then use what you’ve learned to grow. Conversely, that which doesn’t nourish you, do not spend any more time trying to understand or integrate it into your world.
Babies do this all the time. They don’t so much change as evolve. They adapt, move on, shift, learn, emerge. As adults, we can do this too.
See more 10 Minutes in category Changing Scene, Things to Ponder
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Posted on August 28, 2004
I drove home from Chicago to Michigan yesterday afternoon, tuned to Chicago’s radio news stations for most of the drive. Commercials were a constant counterpoint to the music.
First, there was the Mercedes Benz commercial, claiming to be Number One in sales in Chicago. That didn’t seem so unreasonable, until I wondered how many Mercedes dealerships there could be within the city limits. After all, Mercedes are costly, so there couldn’t be too many dealerships in a given area without diluting the profit margins of all dealerships in the same area.
After dinner at home, I went online to research the number of dealerships within the city limits of Chicago. It was then I realized that the advertisement was meaningingless, since there was only one Mercedes dealership within the city limits; and it was the one sponsoring the commercial. I wondered how it could be number one without a number two or a number three.
I think the most accurate phrase the advertiser might have used is that this particular dealership is the only Mercedes dealer within the city. But, of course, that doesn’t make as dramatic a statement.
Another radio commercial said that a certain well-known cola had 50 percent less sugar. But it didn’t say less sugar than what? Fifty percent less sugar that its original beverage? Fifty percent less sugar than a competitor? Fifty percent less sugar than a sugar plantation? It may seem nit-picky, but comparisons need to tell us both sides of the equation. Otherwise, we devise the missing part on our own, and this often works in favor of the advertiser who wants us to believe it is number one, has less sugar, fewer carbs, more energy, greater resistance, brighter teeth, faster engines, better protection, and greater possibilities.
These phrases all beg the questions “Less than what?” or “More than what?” And if we don’t know, at least we might want to be more aware of fact that there is missing information. It could help us be more skeptical about advertising claims.
I mean more skeptical than we were before.
See more 10 Minutes in category Dining/Food, Things to Ponder
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Posted on August 27, 2004
It’s probably something only the cook notices, but blended families make mealtime a real challenge.
The members of a blended family have usually lived with other spouses, parents, or siblings before coming together. They don’t always have long histories with each other; and, in addition, they carry memories of previous histories that would daunt the most fervent believer in reincarnation.
When I married for the first time, I had a college degree but little knowledge about cooking dinner. I could stir up brownies and scramble eggs. If pressed, I could probably have baked a potato and a piece of chicken and had them ready to serve at the same time. But that was the extent of my culinary skills.
The new bride in me really wanted to please her new mate. He came from an Italian background, so I asked his mother for her spaghetti and minestrone recipes and mastered them within weeks of the wedding. From there, I branched out to recipes and meals I knew he liked; and the years we were together he seemed pleased with my cooking. When our two boys came along, they learned to eat what I served. But things happen.
Next I married someone from a Jewish background. He preferred matzo balls to ravioli, chicken soup to minestrone, bagels to Italian bread, and gefilte fish to calamari.
In addition, my new husband’s two girls eventually came to live with us. They preferred anything that came in a can: soup, Spaghettios, sardines, potato sticks. One day, I came home from work to discover they had eaten our entire stock of canned black olives as an after-school snack.
This does not imply that one person’s style of cooking is better than another’s. What it does mean is that many of our food preferences come from our families of origin and are formed when we are very young. It took conscious effort to blend them so that everyone at our dinner table enjoyed the meal.
If I made lasagna, the boys ate it voraciously. After the pasta was devoured, they pushed the garlic bread around their plates to sop up any remaining sauce. The girls acted as if they were company in a strange house, staring at their plates in polite acceptance. My husband rearranged the ricotta here and there to reach the noodles. I believe he was searching for the raisins his own mother put in her traditional noodle dish.
Italian meals were not the only ones filled with land mines. Almost every dinner at our house required acute concentration. If baked potatoes were on the night’s menu, I cooked both sweet and Idaho, as neither kind was liked by all. If I made steak, my husband wanted his plain, the girls wanted A-1 sauce, and the boys wanted gravy.
No doubt regular families have these problems too, but they seemed more acute in a family such as mine. We held a lengthy discussion one night trying to come up with a meal everyone liked. The closest we came was pizza, although we’d have to make plain cheese and cheese and sausage to keep everyone happy.
At one point in the discussion, Stephanie, the youngest, offered her opinion. “Why don’t we just eat dinner out every night?” she said. “Then we’d all get what we want.”
Ultimately I solved the problem by divorcing again, and preparing dinner for only one.
See more 10 Minutes in category Dining/Food, Me/Family
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Posted on August 26, 2004
The passport you received is good for ten years, unless you are leaving the country within six months prior to its expiration. In that case, you need to renew it before you depart.
You won’t find this notice from the U.S. Department of State posted anywhere, but it seems to be the operating system in the wacky world of the government. I only came across it because I happen to fall into the above category.
I’m going to Panama, Costa Rica, Mexico, and Belize the end of January 2005; and my passport expires the end of May, same year. You can do the math.
Somewhere I read the above disclaimer, which was offered in a font some size between a sesame seed and a peppercorn. Although I cannot find it now, it haunted me. So I called our travel agent, the one who is setting up this trip and asked if he had heard of it too. He wasn’t sure he had. But he wasn’t sure he hadn’t. He suggested I go for the new passport, just in case.
For the sake of discussion (If you read my blog regularly, you know I’m always up for discussion), let’s assume this rule IS written somewhere in obscure black and white. If you are not traveling in the last six months of your current passport, it doesn’t matter at all. But what if you are, and you don’t come across this dictum? What if a trip comes up unexpectedly three months prior to the expiration date? You could get stranded in Tibet.
Today I downloaded the forms from the U.S. Department of State regarding passport renewal applications. I studied the peppercorn-sized print, and still didn’t find anything about the six-month window.
Maybe it was a requirement of the tour company we selected, but my travel agent should have known this since he IS the tour company. In either case, would you take a chance and assume that your expiration date on your passport was adequate protection in a foreign country? Especially in today’s world.
Me neither.
See more 10 Minutes in category Annoyances, Travel
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Posted on August 25, 2004
When the Olympic Games opened a little over a week ago in Athens, Greece, I was pleased not only that Greece, the country, had pulled it off but also that I would have a chance to watch some of my favorite spectator sports as August droned down.
I have a special place in my heart for the gymnasts, since my son Keith had been one in his youth. Floor exercise was his favorite event. So I spent the first nights watching the competitions and crocheting on a Christmas project. I got a lot done on the project.
But as Week One rolled over into Week Two, I found myself returning to reading for the evening’s excitement. By now, we have been inundated with doping charges, poor performances in some quarters, misjudging judges, and complaints from those who felt they should have won and didn’t. Gymnast Svetlana Khorkina takes the gold in this latter category.
These are not new behaviors; the previous Winter Games were also beset with poor judges and poorer losers. And, while I cannot list other specific Olympics, I recall vaguely how hands raised in black power salutes, runners who didn’t pass drug tests, and marathoners who tripped each other were part of the unscheduled events.
Human error happens, no doubt; but I am beginning to wonder if the Olympics are becoming just another example of too much hype, too much pressure, too much riding on the exposure for the winners, too much marketing, too much of everything that isn’t about good sportsmanship.
Maybe the next celebrity Wheaties® box should be absolutely white with nothing, except its nutritional value and bar code, printed on it. What do you think?
See more 10 Minutes in category Special Events, Things to Ponder
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Posted on August 24, 2004
Night is a strange time; and, as we move to that part of the year when it’s darker longer, I’ve noticed how different sounds prick the ear under the darkness.
When we sleep with our windows closed, there is the intermittent hum of the air conditioning. The pump that pumps water from our well sounds like someone is vacuuming our crawl space; and, although it only lasts several minutes, you would wonder what it was if you were a guest in our home for the first time.
Another thing I alert guests to is the sprinkler system that comes on at four in the morning and sounds like the rat-a-tat of a small BB gun when it strikes the outside brick. That can be really disconcerting when you’re deep in slumber.
With the windows closed, the manual alarm clock that Earl uses as extra insurance above and beyond the radio alarm makes its presence known, even though Earl places it in the bathroom.
When we sleep with our windows open, there is an entirely different symphony of sound, although the sprinklers, like trumpets, still command temporary attention. The river’s rush, the falling water on the other side of the bank, the birds, the walnuts dropping from the trees with a thud, the crickets — oh, the crickets — and, on warm nights, voices of others who court the night long after we’ve retired.
All in all, it’s peaceful either way, although I think I prefer the sounds of nature to the sounds of machinery.
See more 10 Minutes in category Small Town Life, Technology
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Posted on August 23, 2004
Here are some tips I’ve learned hanging out with Earl the Realtor® that are really useful when you go to buy that great home.
1. Everyone thinks he or she knows how to buy a home, because everyone lives in one. The truth is how Uncle Fred bought his bungalow thirty years ago is irrelevant information.
2. There is a ton of paperwork involved.
3. In the past, buyers often found the home of their dreams, then tried to find a mortgage lender. Today, savvy buyers line up a lender first, then go house hunting knowing how much they qualified to borrow.
4. There are enough players in the transaction to field a football team. Real estate agents, lawyers, appraisers, inspectors, buyers, sellers, relatives, friends, and at least one decorator waiting to take the ball and run with it.
5. Get your taxes done early if you want to buy a home in the beginning of the year.
6. The actual closing on the property is often tense when it shouldn’t be. Know that everything usually comes together at the last minute. This is normal; but, if you are an organized control freak, it will drive you nuts.
7. Don’t change jobs, start your own business, buy a fancy car, or borrow extensively on your credit cards for three to four months before starting the mortgage process. Your ability to purchase a home is tied to your credit rating.
8. Finally, ask questions all the time. Real estate agents and mortgage brokers take so much of the process for granted that they forget you bought your last home ages ago and may not be aware of current practices.
See more 10 Minutes in category Changing Scene, Things to Ponder
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Posted on August 22, 2004
If you think this essay is going to be about football, then don’t read any further. You’ll be wasting your time.
Sacking 101 is a course I’d like to see supermarkets offer their employees, especially those who stand at the ends of the checkout lines and put the groceries into paper bags or plastic sacks.
Case in point: Yesterday I went to the grocery store and bought 21 items, including such small items as tuna and cheese. The largest items were the half gallon of milk and the ten pound turkey. While loading my trunk, I counted the number of plastic bags needed to hold my purchases. How many do you think?
The milk was alone in its own sack. So were the extra coat hangers I’d bought, and the box of stuffing mix. The tuna, all two cans, shared with a banana. And so on. Ultimately, it took ten plastic bags to hold the 21 items.
Perhaps I looked frail, and the person who bagged my groceries didn’t want me to collapse under their load. But I’m the sort of the person who wants to make as few trips from the garage to the kitchen as possible. I’m also the sort of person who doesn’t want a lot of extra plastic to dispose of.
Once upon a time, there was no choice but paper sacks with flat bottoms. Those who filled them seemed to know a system whereby heavier items like tomato sauce and canned corn went in the bottom while lettuce and grapes went on top. Cereal and pasta made good bottom fillers too. Somehow, grocery employees figured this out, which is why I’m suggesting that Sacking 101 be updated. I’m sure my hangers, stuffing, tuna, cheese, and banana would be willing to ride home from the store together. I’m equally sure I could manage the collective weight of them in one sack.
See more 10 Minutes in category Annoyances, Personal Pleas
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Posted on August 21, 2004
I have a decorating trademark, one that I’ve never seen described in Martha Stewart’s world, although I admit I don’t frequent that world very often. My trademark is this: wherever I live, the space above my kitchen cabinets makes a statement.
I once lived in a loft in an old Sears, Roebuck warehouse where the ceilings were 14 feet high, but the kitchen cabinets stopped at the usual height. So there was an abundance of unused space above them. I filled it with old furniture: a small rocking chair, my son’s discarded toy box, a trunk I found in my parents’ garage, a child’s school desk, and other large odds ‘n’ ends.
That was the start of my interest in cabinet couture.
While my next home was being built, I lived in a rental apartment because I’d sold the loft faster than anticipated. This time I positioned books and framed photographs above the cabinets, choosing covers that lent a sense of color to the otherwise drabby white kitchen.
In the next home, the kitchen was part of the great room that also doubled as a living, dining, and family room. This meant I had little actual cabinet space, so I displayed my good China, my wine rack, and other attractive serving dishes above the few cabinets there were. Needless to say, when company arrived and I’d forgotten to get down that particular bottle of wine, it wasn’t very classy to drag out my stepladder. But that’s what I did.
I guess you could call my present kitchen statement “Family Scrapbook,” since almost everything came from family members. There are the ceramic chickens Earl and I brought from his Mother’s house in Spring City, Tennessee, when she went to a nursing home. There is the Singer sewing machine my own Mother bought in the 1950s. The wine rack is from my older son, Kevin, as is the plaque he made in eighth grade that reads “Our gourmet kitchen is closed; try our famous peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” Then add the picnic basket from Earl’s daughter, the Lionel engine from my Dad’s estate, the photos of my two sons as young children, and you get the drift.
There is also a plaque that reads “Martha Stewart doesn’t live here” and another one that reads “Maybe it’s not Home Sweet Home. Adjust.” I’d let Ms. Stewart borrow the latter when she moves to the Big House, but I doubt she’ll have a cabinet on which to display it.
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