?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Reel Time

Posted on February 22, 2015

8:30 PM – It’s Oscar Night, the film industry’s annual acknowledgement to itself.  Usually boring; unbearably long; and at least one curmudgeon. Still, I tune in every year if only to see the designer gowns and upswept hairdos. Tonight I’m blogging in real time about it.

8:35 PM – Neal Patrick Harris takes the glittery stage. He does a great number, but it isn’t up to his Tony hosting performances.  Not enough to work with.

8:45 PM – J. K. Simmons wins best supporting actor; thanks his wife, children, and parents.  No mention of God.

8:50 PM – Cameras pan the audience. I hardly recognize any guests. There’s nobody over forty, except Robert DeNiro and Meryl Streep.

9:50 PM – American Sniper wins its first award.

9:51 PM – Patricia Arquette wins best supporting actress for “Boyhood.” Acknowledges every citizen, argues for wage equality for women. No mention of God. (This is not the CMA Award show, where God shows up a lot.)

10:10 PM – Best animated feature film is “Big Hero 6.”  I saw previews; not sure I’ll see the real thing in spite of its award.

10:36 PM – The “In Memoriam” section of the show, where those who died this past year are recognized.  This year we mourn James Garner, Lauren Bacall, and Mike Nichols among others. Always poignant.

11:08 PM – Best song goes to “Glory,” the anthem for the film “Selma.” Acceptance speeches are emotional, address slavery back then and black incarceration today.

11:20 PM – Lady Gaga sings a medley of “The Sound of Music.” Then the real Julie Andrews appears.  Maybe we’re getting close to serious awards now. Still to come:  Best actress, best actor, best film.

11:25 PM – Cut to commercial.  Voice over confirms there is lots more to come, although the TV Guide says the show ends at 11:30 PM.  But then this is Hollywood.  Over budget and over time. I’m going to bed.  No spoilers here. In retrospect, another boring evening.

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Joel, John, Lang-Lang, Wang, Wonder

Posted on February 22, 2015

Ever hear of the ten thousand hour rule?  I hadn’t until recently when a version of it was applied to playing the piano.  It went like this:  To really master the piano, you must spend either ten years or ten thousand hours studying it. If you do the math, that’s the equivalent of three hours every day of those ten years.

This week, I start my fourteenth year of piano lessons; and I assure you I am nowhere near the master’s level.  Maybe the intermediate level at best. A struggling intermediate pianist.

I admit I didn’t practice the proscribed three hours daily, although I do play most days.

But there are other considerations.  I didn’t take that first lesson until I was in my fifties, so I’m pretty sure the pianists listed above had at least a forty-year head start.

My hands are problematic at this point.  They don’t move as quickly or smoothly as they once did.  In fact, Muzio Clementi and I may come to a parting of the ways, because of this. His compositions are fast; I’m not.

Piano is a very difficult instrument, something else I didn’t know fourteen years ago.  I assumed that since I was a whiz at keyboarding, I would use this dexterity to great advantage.  I’m still good at keyboarding, but playing piano is nothing like that. Your keyboard is spread across your arm’s span, and if a computer keyboard were built like this, the Technology Age wouldn’t be as far along.

Learning to play piano is more like learning a language and then speaking it with your hands and not your voice. And, if you want to carry the analogy further, there is an alphabet of eight-eight “letters” as well as various markings that change how they’re used. Think the umlaut and the cedilla here.

Am I discouraged?  I’m not sure. I certainly wish I had more progress to show for what I’ve invested in my instrument.  At the same time, learning to play piano has enhanced my appreciation of music in general and pianists in particular. Perhaps I just need to put in another ten thousand hours.

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Comfort Food

Posted on February 20, 2015

It was an important text from my son who lives in upstate New York.  It read “Thinking of you. (Actually he wrote ‘u’, but I can’t bring myself to do that.) About to have Spaghettios ® for dinner. Very excited.”

My first impulse was to call him and ask if he would put the pot of Spaghettios® up to the phone, so I might smell the unmistakable aroma of childhood.  Not only his but my own.  In fact, that’s what I did.

He laughed, and then we reminisced about other comfort foods that were part of our life together: Kraft® macaroni and cheese, Bisquick, Cocoa Puffs®, and Campbell’s® tomato soup. There was also a spaghetti and ground beef concoction that my ex-husband used to make, but instead of using a red sauce he simply poured the beef – grease and all — over the cooked pasta and sprinkled salt on it with the same abandon that one might sprinkle shredded cheese.

Every one of these “dishes” was a winner at the time, but I must confess they’d all disappeared from my culinary repertoire until my son’s text.  Somehow they’d become too fraught with calories or carbs.

Still, there’s enough winter left that I might get the urge to buy some Spaghettios® the next time I go to the supermarket.

Just for old time’s sake.

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Fat Tuesday

Posted on February 17, 2015

To celebrate the last day before the Lenten season begins, my friends and I went to a local bakery known for its paczkis.  That’s a Polish word, pronounced ‘poonchkeys,’ for what would be a jelly donut on other days.

But Sandra Kay’s, the bakery in question, is known for paczkis, both quality-wise and variety-wise. It did not disappoint, although I ordered an almond horn instead.  I’m not one for jelly donuts under any guise.

Still, Fat Tuesday reminded me not only of my childhood in various mid-west cities (St. Louis, Little Rock, Chicago), but also of Mardi Gras in New Orleans. This is not to say I participated in these rituals; rather, I was told to ignore them and think about the next day: Ash Wednesday.

In my world that was the day I would give up something – chocolate, snacks, pretzels, whatever — for the six and a half weeks before Easter.  I would do this to make me a better person.  One with more self-control. One with strength over temptation.

I can honestly tell you I didn’t think a moment about giving anything up as my friends and I indulged in our various pastries.

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Carbots

Posted on February 16, 2015

I checked on Google®, and the term ‘carbots’ refers to an “action packed toy race car,” according to various websites. Perhaps something like the movie “The Incredibles.” They’re relatively unassuming at first glance but action packed when the situation demands.

The thing is carbots are becoming reality. The car I purchased last year tells me when a tire is low, when I’m using fuel to its best advantage, and if I’m going to hit something in reverse.  And that’s not the top of the brand’s line.

Some cars parallel park themselves; others talk to you. And there is a prototype out there that actually drives itself.

At first, I thought this feature would be a great way to enable senior citizens who should no longer be driving to still maintain a sense of freedom. It would also be good for busy executives who could use driving time better on a conference call or creating a proposal. As for me, I could make my grocery list while the car drives me to the supermarket.

Still, I’m not sure this is progress. After all, we’ve relegated many of our daily tasks to computerization, and I wonder if in the deal we’ve reduced our brain capacity.  We no longer memorize frequently-used telephone numbers, and we can’t do multiplication in our heads. What if we can no longer take command of the steering wheel when necessary?

I don’t have the answer; and if I did, it probably wouldn’t be popular anyway. This is because it would revolve around being able to do basic tasks that computerized society has commandeered. It’s as if the tail is wagging the dog.

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Haute Culture

Posted on February 15, 2015

It’s a good thing Earl and I celebrated Valentine’s Day early since we were snowed in yesterday, the official Hallmark holiday.  So by today, I yearned for some distractions and went looking for cultural outlets. I was not denied.

First, two friends and I went to the movies, mostly on my recommendation.  I’d seen the trailers and found them appealing; I’d researched our offerings at the local theater and learned the film was playing at a reasonable time. I’d also checked the weather to make sure we could get there. And so, we saw “SpongeBob Square Pants: Sponge out of Water.” We were definitely the oldest people in the theater too.

Did the movie live up to its trailer hype?  I’m sorry to say it didn’t.  In fact, if we’d all seen the trailer on YouTube we could have saved seven dollars each, because it contained the funniest scenes.  So now I’m wondering if I should reimburse my friends for getting me out of the house.

Moving on . . .

Earl and I met three other couples at a new restaurant with a reputation for a way with hamburgers. We commandeered a table for eight, although it didn’t have either a tablecloth or candles.  Still, we placed our coats over the chairs so other diners would know we’d staked a claim.

Then we got in line behind the sacks of potatoes that were part of the décor and moved toward the ordering station, couple by couple. We all received a receipt with a number on it, and when that number was called our husbands went to the counter to retrieve our meals. It was so classy.

There was no salt on the table, but Earl had been here before and brought his own, which he generously offered to our tablemates.  He also brought a knife with which to cut our sandwiches in half, since the restaurant’s policy seemed against that.

Oh, did I forget to tell you the name of this famous restaurant?  It was Five Guys, newly come to St. Joseph. Haute Culture at its best for an early Sunday evening supper with great friends.

We were also the oldest people in this restaurant too.

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Valentine’s Day

Posted on February 14, 2015

Today is Valentine’s Day, and I remember the very first VD Earl and I spent together. It was wintry cold, and I lived in a flat in the Irving Park neighborhood of Chicago’s north side.  He lived downtown.

Many of our dates in those early years revolved around enjoying Chicago’s diverse cuisines and myriad restaurants.  But for some reason, I invited Earl to dinner in my walk-up flat to celebrate the holiday of lovers.

I’m not sure what I cooked – that was years ago – but I’m positive it included the food groups that Earl loves even today:  cheese, cheese, and more cheese.

What I do remember is that we each had a gift for the other.  He arrived with what looked like a large poster, wrapped with tons of Scotch tape which I have learned is his signature style.  I offered a small box, and I’m sure the tape didn’t show anywhere.

So after dinner, we exchanged these gifts. I opened a limited edition print by artist G. Harvey of the Art Institute, while he opened Tiffany’s glass version of a baseball. Today, the Harvey print is framed and hangs above our bed. The baseball can be found in our master bathroom with other various baseball memorabilia.

And I smile every time I look at either one.

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The Queen of Clean

Posted on February 13, 2015

Linda Cobb is my kind of gal.  She wrote a book titled The Queen of Clean, originally published in 1998 and still going strong. In it, she solves the mysteries of cleaning one’s home, conquering clutter, and removing spots and stains.

In my small circle of friends, I’m probably the one most interested in cleaning.  In fact, I’ve gone on record as saying – more than once — how much I like the activity.  It ranks up there with reading and gardening. And eating . . .

I’ve learned a lot from Ms. Cobb since a member of the same circle of friends I allude to in the previous paragraph gave me my very own copy of her book.  I’ve learned what activities one should do daily, weekly, monthly etc.  I’ve also learned what one should do in any given month.  For instance, January’s extra time is devoted to removing the previous month’s holiday residue from your home.

One thing I like about the author is that she isn’t pedantic or demanding or rigid.  For instance, here are the six things she says one should do every day to make life run more smoothly: make beds, put dirty clothes in a hamper, hang up other clothes, clean spills, wash dishes, and wipe counters and stovetops.

Not that hard, eh?

But what I like most is that if you miss a day, her advice is, “Well, the dishes will be there tomorrow.”  That goes for bed-making too.

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Brian Williams

Posted on February 12, 2015

In the past week, almost everyone has weighed in on Brian Williams: various journalists, op ed columnists, talking heads.  I had even thought of commenting myself, although I’m not in any of those categories.  Instead I’ll comment on NBC’s reaction to Williams’s embellishments.

I think the media giant handled the situation appropriately.  It took Williams off the air for six months without pay, and it didn’t say what would happen after that.  There are those who think the nightly newscaster won’t return, and there are those who think he deserves a second chance.

But imposing a six-month time-out enables everyone involved to breathe.  NBC has time to investigate if there are any other cases where Williams was less than forthright. It also buys time to see if Lester Holt, the stand-in, garners an audience.  And it takes this problem off the front page.

I would only hope it also signals that our country is turning the corner on such behavior.  Perhaps in the future those who misuse the public trust (I’m thinking politicians, Congress people, and corporate liars here) will also be treated to a serious time-out.  Or worse.

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Touched

Posted on February 8, 2015

Some woman named Nancy sent me a message via Facebook, and I didn’t know what to do with it.  She claimed I wrote a poem, and she had a grammatical question about it.

The problem was I didn’t recognize the poem she referenced. I hope I can be excused, as I’ve written more words than are in War and Peace and The Brothers Karamazov lumped together.

I ignored the post for a while, until curiosity intervened. Tonight I wrote her back, saying I didn’t believe I’d ever written a poem title “Legacy.” But she began sending the poem to me, line by line.  It’s all on Facebook.

And when she got to the line wherein her grammatical question lay, I realized I was the author. And I was touched.

I’d written that poem years ago as part of a collection called Bittersweet, a collection that chronicled my disintegrating marriage and never saw the light of publishing day. I don’t even know where Nancy came upon it.

I wrote her back acknowledging that she was correct on both counts.  I was the author and she was right about the grammar. She responded that she was writing her obituary and wanted to use the poem in it.

If I never publish another work, Nancy has validated me.

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