Originally published November 13, 2008

I am often amazed at the way things fit together in this world. For instance, every time I purchase coffee in a to-go cup, that cup fits handily in the cup holder in my car. It doesn’t seem to matter where I buy the coffee or what model car I’m driving. Obviously, car manufacturers and paper product manufacturers talked with each other about this.

I suspect those who build trucks talk with those who build bridges, so that the trucks are able to pass under without shaving their roofs off. It doesn’t seem to matter if the bridge is in Arizona or New Hampshire; truckers are confident they can get where they’re going in one piece.

Furniture manufacturers probably talk with those who make doors to insure their product will fit through various openings. Zipper producers check in with clothing designers to know how many inches zippers should be. Gas pumps fit into gas tanks with ease even though they’re probably made by different companies.

So what I don’t understand is this: why can’t clothing designers agree on the meaning of small, medium, large, and extra-large?

Originally published October 10, 2008

Yesterday was a partial travel day, as I returned from NYC to my own office in Michigan. To pass the time between airline flights in various airports, I bought both Time magazine and Newsweek. I had a book with me, but for some reason (Maybe sensory overload of NYC) I wanted to read something easy, something slightly mentally challenging, but something that might provide insight to the week’s economic woes.

I certainly found the easy and the slightly mentally challenging in Time, but any insight was lacking. In addition I felt cheated, since the newsstand copy of this publication cost $4.95 and I certainly didn’t get that much value from its contents.

To start, the magazine had 96 pages, but it seemed most of them were advertisements. To be sure of this, I counted the actual pages that had articles, editorials, etc. I found there were 50 pages of content, although one was the Table of Contents itself, and two of them were letters to the editor, which hardly count as staff writings.

Several additional pages were short snippets of what’s happening in the world, like a condensation of material that someone could download to his or her phone. Nothing in depth here. Then there was the page of cartoons and the six pages of photographs detailing how tuberculosis is still a scourge. If you’re doing the math, you can see I spent about a dime a page to learn what’s going on in the world.

I remember the days when Time offered a cogent weekly analysis of our world for considerably fewer dimes. I remember when articles were three hundred to five hundred words in length, giving the reader something to consider. I remember when the writing was stylish. Columnists had something to say, even if you disagreed. Plays on words abounded.

It’s a fact that readership of print media is declining, and I’m not sure what happened first. Did content decline and discourage readership? Or did readership turn to other information outlets and cause various publications to cut back and decline? I only know I won’t spend $4.95 again for Time; at the same time, I mourn the fact.

Originally published August 23, 2008

Earl and his cronies email back and forth a lot, mostly with jokes or political humor or support for the NRA. I’ve asked him to filter what he forwards to me, as I don’t believe recycled jokes or partisan politics or the NRA constitute an honest-to-goodness personal email exchange. He complies.

But every now and then Earl forwards something that cancels my angst on the aforementioned topics. Recently, he sent the winning submissions to The Washington Post’s yearly contest in which readers supply alternate meanings for common words.

I can’t resist publishing some of them here for anyone who loves language. Note the word has also been given a part of speech. Priceless!

Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.

Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.

Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.

Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.

Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.

Gargoyle (n.), olive-flavored mouthwash.

Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.

Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that,when you die, your Soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.

Additionally, the Washington Post’s Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are some of this year’s winners:

Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.

Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.

Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn’t get it.

Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)

Karmageddon (n): It’s like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it’s like, a serious bummer.

Glibido (v): All talk and no action.

Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

Thanks, Earl, for making my dictionary day.

Originally published September 16, 2008

My son Keith, his partner Chris, and I had occasion this past weekend to spend time in the Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport (MSP) on our way to see Keith’s brother, Kevin, who was celebrating his fortieth birthday. It made me think of all the airports I’ve been in recently. Truthfully, I like MSP the best.

It’s comfortable; there are lounge chairs — really comfy lounge chairs — in many locations. It’s quiet; most of the floor is carpeted to mute the noise of roller bags. It’s upscale; there is a mini-mall inside with more than just the usual fast food places to eat.
Additionally, I found a lounge on the second floor, above the usual airport din, where real stretch-out couches and lounge chairs invite people who are serious about being quiet. It was called the “Quiet Lounge.” Reading is allowed, but there’s no cell phones, no chatting, no loud gum chewing. Were I trapped in MSP in a crippling snow storm, that’s where I’d hide.

For the fun of it, here are my impressions of other airports I’ve passed through in the past year or so.
Denver – strictest security; plan extra time to remove most of your clothing. Atlanta – craziest layout; plan extra time to get from one terminal to another. Philadelphia – Most helpful security personnel. (This really doesn’t say much!) Tahiti – quaint but efficient. Tahiti Nui Airlines, however, takes first place for service. Detroit – best remodeling effort with a tram to move passengers from one gate to another and an amazing water display.

Cincinnati – most original boarding system. Call it the herd approach. Savannah – most patriotic, as passengers and guests stand and applaud when a serviceperson in uniform passes. South Bend – most unpredictable. Don’t have your plane get cancelled on a Notre Dame football weekend because you’ll have no other options. Winnipeg – most utilitarian. Fargo – Cutest small town airport, due to a current remodeling effort.

We all know flying isn’t what it used to be. The planes are packed because there are fewer flights, the seats are close together, and the amenities are non-existent. So maybe the new criterion in choosing an airline is the airport you have to deal with. If so, don’t go anywhere near Chicago’s O’Hare. Unless you’re a masochist.

Originally published August 4, 2008

After vacationing for the past couple weeks, I’m home in my default life, the one I participate in when we’re not traveling. I’m the first to admit it’s a great life, with little of the stresses I’ve encountered raising children and making ends meet and finding time to myself. Yet, there’s one thing I’ve noticed lately.

I have so many interests that it’s difficult to find time to work on any one of them with intensity. I love to crochet, read, practice piano, kayak, garden, work out, and write. All of these things could become the Number One Passion, if it weren’t for the others wanting equal time.

So I suspect I’ll never be Olympic quality in any of these passions, since I can’t find the single one I want to devote most of my free time to. I love them all.

Which suggests I’m a generalist, somebody who owns a smattering of information about a lot of different things rather than an exacting library of knowledge about one thing to the exclusion of others.

Truth is, I’ve always known this. It makes me feel conflicted at times, but it is never boring.

Originally published July 27, 2008

I don’t know how many days we have been at Wollaston Lake Lodge; because, truthfully, I’ve lost track of time. The staff says it’s Day Four, because the lodge’s calendar is broken into four-day weeks. Guests usually stay four days, which wreaks havoc with a regular calendar and makes specific dates and days meaningless.

So if it’s Day Four today, then tomorrow is Day One. The current guests leave bright and early and are replaced by new ones. Except Earl and I signed up for two sessions. So we’ll sleep in during the “bright and early” departure and be ready to greet incoming guests around 8:30 AM.

I remember our first time here three years ago. It was all new and impressive: the rustic lodge with every amenity; the comfortable cabins; the gourmet meals; and the real reason people come: the fish. But there is an advantage to being a return visitor; you understand the rhythym of the lodge’s routine better, because it takes a little getting used to.

For instance, the schedule is such that guests arriving on Day One settle in early enough to get a full day of fishing in before evening. This is a plus, but it can also be tiring, since everyone has gotten up at 4:30 in the morning to catch the charter for the lodge. Returning guests understand it’s a long day, and plan accordingly. For us, it meant going to bed early a couple nights before arriving.

In addition, there’s shore lunch — on top of a full breakfast — followed by a three course dinner with wine.
It’s difficult not to gain weight on those four days, because missing any of those meals means missing wonderful food. This morning, for instance, there was banana French toast and blueberry pancakes on the menu. I didn’t go fishing or I wouldn’t be writing this, but I’m positive shore lunch included fresh fish (caught this very morning), French fries, onion and mushroom sautee, corn, baked beans, and lodge-made cookies for dessert. Or maybe it was teriyaki fish stir fry, all prepared by your guide while you watch.

Of course, there are the wilderness annoyances too. Black flies leave a mean bite, sunburned faces tell you who didn’t use enough sun screen, and it’s always the really BIG fish that got away. Regardless, those are small prices to pay for forgetting one’s homeland routine and having to ask, “What day is it?”

Originally published June 29, 2008

Last night, Earl and I attended the local community theater production of “Cabaret.” It’s an ambitious musical, calling for a considerable cast and also for the audience to understand the historical context of 1930 Berlin. I’m not sure this production delivered on either count. But it certainly made every effort.

I’m not interested in critiquing the production; rather I’m more interested in analyzing the concept behind many musicals today. Originally, musicals advanced the story line through song and dance, rather than through serious exposition. This still holds true. But the story lines have gotten darker, the song and dance more intense, the staging more theatrical.

Often, the musical is used to explore themes that would otherwise be extremely uncomfortable for the audience. There are countless examples, “Cabaret” being only one. This show really explores the rise of Nazism in pre-World War II Germany under the guise of entertainment in a seedy nightclub. It more than hints at the campaign against Jews that became a hallmark of the Third Reich.

“Rent,” the rock opera musical of the 1990s, which is a re-working of Italian Giacomo Puccini’s “La Boheme,” explores the world of AIDS when the world was reluctant to explore it. And “Spring Awakening,” the 2007 Tony Award winner for best musical, explores morality and sexuality in a rock and roll context. Ironically, the inspiration for a show that reveals sexual intercourse and uses the F-word in a riveting song was written as a novel in the 1890s by a German who was decrying the lack of communication between parents and children regarding sex, teenage self-discovery, and responsibility for one’s actions. The book was banned at the time.

Then there is “Wicked,” the exploration of what happened before Dorothy dropped in. If you’ve seen the musical, you know it’s really about good and evil and how each is presented to us, making good choices difficult.

Usually, musicals are upbeat in the first act and somber in the second. Consider the well-known productions of “West Side Story,” “South Pacific,” or even that treacly favorite “The Sound of Music.” The first is a retelling of the tragedy “Romeo and Juliet”; the second is a polemic against racism well hidden in the boisterous songs; and the third is another hint at what Nazi Germany had in store for many of its citizenry.

In the end, I was disappointed in the local production of “Cabaret,” but it has certainly stimulated my thought processes regarding the value of musical theatre. So I came away inspired after all.

Originally published July 4, 2005

Today is the two hundred twenty-ninth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. That’s pretty amazing, and it’s gotten me to thinking how wonderful this holiday really is.

Not only is ours one of the oldest democracies in the world (and maybe the oldest; I’m not sure), but also the signers of the Declaration of Independence had the foresight to convene in July rather than October or January or March. Most likely their decision was a function of the difficulty of travel back then, but today we are the beneficiaries.

Fourth of July is about families and fun. Ah, you say, so is Thanksgiving and Christmas. That’s true; however, these latter holidays require much preparation and often much expense, while Fourth of July doesn’t demand anything more than a grill, a bunch of burgers and a host of hot dogs. Even the fireworks are free.

Fourth of July is the height of the summer season, when children are out of school and parents schedule time off from work. Those two other summer holidays – Memorial Day and Labor Day – simply don’t have the sense of freedom attached to them. Besides, they haven’t been around even half as long.

When I was growing up, the various annual holidays came on different days of the week, just like Fourth of July still does. But somewhere along the timeline of my life, the government decided arbitrarily to move most holidays to a Monday and provide the citizens with three-day weekends wherever possible. To my knowledge, only the Fourth of July, December 25, and January 1 still rotate through the week.

Call me old-fashioned, but I hope this never changes. The Fourth of July always, always, always falls on July 4. That’s how it should be.

Originally published May 13, 2008

Some people, when they buy a pricey item, tend to put it under lock and key. If it’s an emerald ring, they consign it to the lock box at the bank. If it’s a fur coat, they hide it away in a storage facility. And if it’s the genuine article in leather boots, they wrap them in boot stockings and hide them on a shelf. Hey, if this works then so be it.

I have a different perspective. I wear the fancy jewelry I own. Every single day. I don’t have a fur coat, but if I did you can be sure I’d wear it in season too. As for the genuine article in leather boots, I do own a pair. And, rather than save them for some boot skootin’ occasion, I’m prone to wear them whenever the mood strikes.

Perhaps the people who purchase such items and then refuse to wear them feel that ownership is reward enough. Perhaps they feel that keeping the item in pristine condition is their duty. I don’t know. I only know I believe in using those treasures I have.

So what if a ring gets lost, as one of my favorites did last fall. I lost it at a funeral and shall forever remember that day. I didn’t discover that the ring had slipped off my finger until I was on the way home and there was nothing to be done about it as the funeral was two hundred miles down the road. Of course, the ring was insured; so I was able to replace it. But that ring and the death of someone I knew will forever be intertwined in a special way.

The leather boots are another case in point. I bought them on a whim at Lucchese Boot Company in San Antonio a few years back. Believe me, they are the priciest by far of any shoe or boot my feet have ever had the privilege to wear. They are real ostrich, tooled with inlay, and wearable without socks. So why shouldn’t I wear them, even if they become wet with dew, dirty with mud, or cracked with time? Just think of the memories they’ll accumulate.

Which is what it’s about for me. Why not use one’s treasures to fill a life with memories? Wear that expensive bottle of Shalimar daily instead of just for special occasions. Eat Godiva chocolate whenever the mood strikes and the pocketbook can handle it, instead of waiting for a particular reason. Tromp in the garden in those leather boots rather than wait to wear them at a fancy hoedown that you may or may not be invited to. In other words, use it up or wear it out.

Originally published March 2, 2008

Earl has a certain fascination with Ukrainian eggs. In fact, one such egg was among the very first gifts he gave me. We bought it together in an old ethnic neighborhood on Chicago’s west side. I returned the favor one year by bringing him a Ukrainian egg from New York City. Since then family members have added to our small collection.

Until about a year ago, we kept the eggs inside a little cupboard, partly for fear of breaking them. We’d had experience with such breakage, as a cleaning lady accidentally once put her thumb through one. It was the first egg Earl bought me. Keeping it safe hadn’t saved it, so I wondered why we bothered hiding them.

A couple eggs had ribbon pulled through them to enable them to be hung, so I decided to hang them in the kitchen window where we would see them daily. They have been a joy to look at ever since.

It’s true they’re now faded and not as lovely as before. It’s true that the family members who gave Earl the eggs might feel we didn’t take care of them. But what’s also true is that a day doesn’t pass that I don’t think about the tradition of Ukrainian eggs, admire their beauty, and remember the giver.

I think I’d rather have those memories than a perfect egg sitting in a cupboard.