LET'S CALL THE WHOLE THING OFF

Back when Congress still showed up for work and passed the "Energy Independence and Security Act of 2007," I was on board.  It was in the midst of my environmentally responsible stage, and I believed with my heart of hearts that efficient light bulbs would, if not save the world, at least make it a better place for all mankind.  I couldn't wait to buy our first batch of CFL bulbs, but our incandescents just kept hanging on until finally, one cold afternoon--"pop, crack, fizzle"--and our living room table lamp was gone.  We raced to Home Depot and bought a 60-watt CFL lightbulb...not because we particularly wanted a 60-watt bulb (we needed one-hundred watts) but it was the only CFL available.  And, I guess it didn't really say it was a 60-watt bulb, it was a "replacement for"  a 60-watt bulb.  But sadly, it wasn't really.  We were about to learn our first lesson regarding energy-saving light bulbs.  Lumens.

Lumens are a measure of brightness and, apparently, are extremely precious or simply scarce.  If you replace a 60-watt incandescent bulb with a 60-watt equivalent CFL bulb, you will wonder where the light went.  So, forget about watts.  In today's world watts are meaningless.  It's all about lumens.  If you're replacing a 60-watt bulb, you will need at least 800 lumens.  It is not possible to purchase the 880 lumens that 60-watt incandescents used to put out.  That world has shut down.  Shop lumens.  But don't be surprised if they seem to be a bit stingy with them.

In order to make us feel better, we are told that CFL's, dim though they are, will last much longer than those nasty old incandescents and our savings will pile up amazingly fast.  I believed that until my first CFL burned out much quicker than the neighboring incandescent.  It seems, my friends, that a CFL rated to last 10,000 hours (vs. an incandescent at a mere 1,000 hours) will only perform that feat if you don't turn it off and on too much.  And, no, they didn't define how much was "too much." 

But, we are not finished yet.  We haven't discussed Kelvin.  New energy efficient bulbs will report their Kelvin--ie., their color temperature.  In this case, higher Kelvin  numbers mean the light will tend toward blue, whereas lower Kelvin numbers produce more natural light--more like sunshine.  If you grew up with incandescents and you like the way you and your house look in that light, go for 2700 K.  If, however, you want a whiter light move up from there.  But, be careful.  Right after we popped for a $25.00 LED bulb over our breakfast bar, put it in the socket and turned it on, our absolutely gorgeous granite (four weeks of shopping and months of scrimping) disappeared from sight.  Gone...washed out...blah.  Apparently, we went a little heavy on the K's.

All of which makes me want to say that I'm too old and set in my ways for this whole light bulb situation.  I did not stockpile incandescent bulbs because I felt it was un-American, and now look what has happened.  I'm buying bulbs that will live longer than I will, and if I don't get the Lumens and the Kelvins and the new Color Rendering Index just right, BC and I, plus some of the nicer features of our home, will look like hell for as long as we're here.  And that makes me sad--and just the slightest bit ticked off.     

CREME BRULEE

Well, as always, December is flying by and I realized yesterday morning that, yet again, I will have blown through another Holiday Season without making Crème Brulee.  Our schedule is tight and Crème Brulee is just not going to fit in.

It seems simple enough: Crème Brulee requires only five ingredients...at least that version touted by Alton Brown of The Food Network.  He simply asks for:

 One quart of heavy cream

One vanilla bean, split and scraped

One cup of vanilla sugar

Six large egg yolks 

Two quarts of hot water, and

Three Hours and Thirty Minutes of My Life

And, therein, lies the problem. 

If you have to google "vanilla sugar", as I was forced to do, you will be told to bury two vanilla beans in one pound of granulated sugar for a week or so, at which point you dig the beans back out and, I'm assuming, immediately float off into an absolute ecstasy of olfactory delight because nothing smells better than vanilla--and when it's combined with sugar it must be pure heaven.  Unfortunately, that one little ingredient has lengthened our time frame by the twenty minutes it took to figure out what it was, and our prep time has been moved up by one week. 

In addition to timing, the other factor that holds me back from taking on Crème Brulee is that I lack a certain amount of finesse in the kitchen, and if the recipe is just the slightest bit arbitrary, I am lost.  A few lines into Alton's Crème Brulee recipe and I learn that I am to bake little ramekins (add those to the shopping list) of Crème Brulee until they are "set."  Oh, Alton?  What exactly would set mean?  Oh--set means: "...set, but still trembling in the center..."  Oh... sorry, but I am morally opposed to placing anything that is still trembling into my oven, let alone lift it back out again. 

So, yes, there will be no Crème Brulee at my house this year.  I think I'm most sad about the fact that I still have no excuse to purchase the mini propane torch designed to carmelize some of that vanilla sugar I should have been making last week.  

But, I think I'm most glad that I will have three hours and thirty minutes more to shop and wrap for those little Midwest Munchkins I'm going to visit in another week.

Amen....  

"DECIDE WHAT YOU WANT'

During November, and much of December I had given up reading the "Self-Improvement" books I loaded onto my Kindle after Jay suggested I read them.  Giving them up wasn't a conscious decision but simply a matter of time and faulty prioritization. Over the weekend, I re-ordered myself, printed out a new "To Do" list and, for fifteen minutes this morning, picked up Jack Canfield's The Success Principles.  

I had stopped reading Canfield's book when I reached Chapter 3, which is titled: "Decide What You Want."  No reason--it's just where I quit.  After I read the first few pages this morning which detailed all of the reasons we seem to end up not doing what we really want to do in both major and not-so-major life decisions, Jack Canfield got down to the nitty-gritty.

As we begin this process of deciding what we want--what we really want, Jack (I like to call him Jack) writes that whenever we are "confronted with a choice, no matter how small or insignificant" we must stand tall and choose.  He says that giving up choice in order to please others is a habit.  And we can break a habit simply by reversing it.  No more "Whatever you'd like," or "I don't care," or "Whatever works for you."  We must choose.  Even if it really doesn't matter.  Feed the habit. 

At this point in my reading, I was feeling fairly empowered, and it wasn't even noon yet.  Now, this was not a short chapter and I was only a few pages in, but I was up for Jack's first exercise.  BC was gathering lunch possibilities out of the refrigerator and asked what I would like to eat.  Normally, I would answer, "I'm good with anything, what would you like?"  But, with my new found principle, I thought for a minute and said, "I'll split the tuna salad with you."

Whoa!  That was big.  In a split-second my 70-year old brain had worked out a preference, and in order not to be seen as piggish and selfish, offered to share the tuna salad...even though, secretly, I wanted it all.  But--I know in my heart of hearts, it's progress, not perfection.  Yesterday, I wouldn't have gone nearly that far.  Tomorrow or next week I may go farther.  Progress is good.

I know from skipping ahead in Canfield's book, and from a seminar I recently completed, knowing what you want--really want--is not nearly as easy as you might think.  It takes a great deal of thought and even more commitment and practice.  My tuna salad success at lunch is very small in the general scheme of things, but there will be more tiny victories that, once achieved, will lead to bigger victories. And I will indeed begin to ferret out what it is I do want to do or be in the years I have left, and just as importantly--what I need to do to achieve that goal.  Life is exciting.  Even when you're old-er.     

PETER PAN, REDUX

Hi--back as promised.  But, oh my.  Oh dear.  Well--darn it all.  Maybe the situation with "Peter Pan" at seventy is, it just isn't the same as "Peter Pan" at nine, or ten, or twenty-seven.  Maybe, at seventy, there are too many other Peter Pans still flying around in our brains.  And, maybe, the little yellow records I mentioned the other day really were as good as it got, and I shouldn't have trashed them, or given them away, or lost them, or whatever I did that caused their disappearance.  But, I can tell you right now that if I did have them back, I would only look at those little records and not ever play them.  Some things are better left where they are.

That being said. I still want to affirm that I heartily support NBC presenting live theatre.  "The Sound of Music," last year, and "Peter Pan," on Thursday evening were great ideas, and I hope they keep right on doing it. Quality programming does raise television to a higher plane, and we need a lot more of that.

Years ago, one of the television networks introduced me to Edgar Allan Poe when I watched "The Cask of Amontillado," and nearly wet my pants.  I recovered, and shortly afterward embarked on a reading frenzy of Poe's short stories.

On another summer afternoon, I saw "No Exit" by Jean Paul Sartre.  I was probably in high-school then.  The presentation was in black and white and  dramatized the theory that Hell might not really be all fire and brimstone.  Hell just might be three people who can't stand each other, locked in a small room with no hope of escape for all eternity. Think about that.  When I finally began to understand what I was watching, I was really relieved that fire wasn't involved; but, by the end of the hour, I had to consider fire might have been a blessing.  That play stayed in the front of my brain for fifty years, and only recently did I learn it had come from Sartre.  

So--what happened with Peter Pan that left me disappointed?  Primarily, Peter Pan and Captain Hook.  Allison Williams is darling and has a great voice, but I kept waiting for Peter to show up.  Her performance was careful, right on point and right on cue but, for me, Peter was missing.  I never felt his spirit or his spark.  Sadly, Peter never  flew, he was simply flown.

Christopher Walken, I thought, looked as if he were in a daze, bored, and perhaps a bit confused by all that was going on around him.  Actually, when I'd watched him in a portion of the preview the week before, I assumed he simply was still perfecting his take on the Captain and would come to life for the actual telecast.  I was wrong.

Now for the big confession.  I quit watching at 9:15 p.m.  I missed the last 45 minutes and I know a lot went on. NBC reassured me on Friday night's newscast that children across the country clapped their hands loud and long, and Tinker Bell did survive. For that I'm grateful and more than a little guilty I wasn't there to help.  I would hate to think of a world without her.

                

PETER PAN--PART ONE

NBC has tempted me off my runaway Christmas prep treadmill, and gently nudged me over the curb onto Memory Lane with its promised live broadcast of "Peter Pan" this evening.  Or, more correctly:  Petah Pan.  Wendy will, no doubt, call him Petah numerous times during the telecast.  And, I can't wait to see it.

I love Peter Pan.  I have loved Peter Pan nearly as long as I've been alive.  I have to believe we had J.M. Barrie's book somewhere in our house when I was growing up.  It can't all have been Walt Disney.  I saw the movie when I was eight or nine, and had the records from it.  They were the size of '45s and bright yellow.  There was also a little book included in the box that had a very abbreviated story line and drawings on each page directly from the movie.  There was nothing not to love about that Christmas gift.

I remember the afternoon I arrived home from school and there, in our living room, was a television set, arranged rather awkwardly in the open curve of our grand piano, its huge eye staring mindlessly into our living room. My Mom was in shock and wouldn't touch it, so we all sat down and stared at it. I, for one, thought my head would burst, I was so excited.

About the same time as Disney's "Peter Pan," TV antennas began sprouting on the rooftops of Dodge City.  An NBC affiliate in Great Bend, 84 miles to our northeast, had just come onto the air, and its reception (in black and white), was the best available to us.  Although most broadcasts were viewed through a filter of snow, ranging from light to white-out blizzard conditions, Daddy bought an antenna for the roof. He was an early adopter.

Within days of our television's arrival, NBC announced it's upcoming broadcast of "Peter Pan" with Mary Martin--live, I assume.  Much was live in those days, so it wasn't as unusual as tonight's performance.  And, just like today, I couldn't wait--but it was an intense "couldn't wait" period.  I worried about the weather:  What if reception was so bad we couldn't see it?   I worried about strange, unexplained interference:  Sunspots?  Martians?  And, on and on.  I was a nervous wreck.

But, wonder of wonders, our reception that evening was watchable.  The snow was light, the music familiar, and Mary Martin as Peter was absolutely spot on. Nana, however, was not a real dog as he will be tonight.  It couldn't have been better and, obviously, I deposited that entire event near the top of my memory bank.

Only as I was writing this post did it occur to me that my father knew how much I loved Peter Pan.  Considering our small house and centralized record player, he had no choice.  What if the timing of his purchase of that beautiful RCA television set and the presentation by NBC of Peter Pan were connected?  What if?  It probably isn't so, but what a nice memory that makes.  I think I'm going to leave it like that and hope for the best. 

I'll check back in after Peter flies tonight..    

THE ONLY THING...

It's not quite December, but I'm already sneaking peeks into my new Planner, imagining what wonderful things will happen to fill all of those days.  There are few things more enticing to me than a blank calendar page.

I'm not sure if I mentioned that I opted for "The Seven Habits" Franklin Planner, which comes with a quote at the bottom of each day's page.  The January 1, 2015, quote is attributed to Bertrand Russell--"The only thing that will redeem mankind is cooperation."   My new discovery, Wikiquote, tells me this quotation comes from "Human Society in Ethics and Politics" published in 1954.  Despite the occasional bad press, I've opted to believe Wikiquote because, frankly, there is no way that I could ever get through "Human Society in Ethics and Politics" to actually find the context of that quote for myself.  I'm simply hoping for the best.

Russell's quote didn't speak to me until the third or fourth reading.  Cooperation seemed so obvious, I was kind of surprised it was included.  Most of us had heard any number of lectures on cooperation even before we walked into kindergarten, and had already found it relatively unappealing.  I mean, really, who wants to cooperate by sharing a brand new crayon with a stranger across the table?  Especially if it's Knock Your Socks Off Pink.

And, yes, I know the leap from sharing crayons to redeeming mankind is a long one, but I've been thinking about it a lot over the past week or so, during what seems to be an especially un-cooperative period across this world of ours.  Finally, though, I've had to stop criticizing Congress; the Administration; Vladimir Putin; Ferguson, MO; the Arizona Governor (incoming and outgoing); and bring the entire process closer to home.

I've considered:  Why is cooperation so hard for so many?  Ideologues aside, we know it's a very good thing.  Politically, it's even better.  But, personally?  I'm afraid, personally, it can suck.  Not all of the time...but enough of the time.

Why?  I think it's the giving up.  The letting go.  The handing over.  And in my case, it's the relationship of those three actions to time.  I was born with a finely-tuned sense of time.  I can literally see it flying by, sweeping away my good intentions, my plans, my daily duties...my days left on earth.  I will admit that I'm selfish with my time.  I'm not sure that's bad, but I have a feeling it's not good.  I'm working on it.

So...what does that mean at our house?  Sharing duties in exchange for time.  Helping each other.  It may take BC an hour to fill out an on-line form while I can whip it out in ten minutes.  It only makes sense for me to do it.  Right now?  Right this minute?  BC is doing the lunch dishes as he watches Big 12 Football, so that I can blog.  That's pretty darned close to a Win-Win, but it still counts as cooperation.   And let me tell you: If we can cooperate, the big boys can cooperate.  I just wish they would...

               

SAN ANTONIO

I think this was my third or fourth trip to San Antonio, but I look forward to it and love it every time.  The Riverwalk is gorgeous and sheltered and cool and just the tiniest bit damp.  For a desert girl, it's a wonderful get-away.  We arrived on Monday afternoon into San Antonio's exceptionally spacious airport.  Not many airports are a pleasure, but this one was.  Every person we talked to or asked directions from was happily helpful.  That's the way we thought of them.  Happily Helpful.  They're great ambassadors for the city which, at 1.6 million, is much larger than I thought.

Mary and I stayed at a Drury Inn and Suites which is showing its age, but again everyone there was exceptionally helpful and breakfast is included in the price.  And, before I forget, so are wine and other similar beverages along with hot hors d'oeuvres.  It's a happy place from 5:30 to 7:00 p.m.  And that aging part?  Our suite was spotless and I'm more into that than the latest and greatest furniture.   

We did the obligatory River Tour, and it is interesting... Really.  I had remembered that the San Antonio River is real and empties into the Gulf of Mexico, but in the process it becomes part of San Antonio's flood control project which is pretty darned intricate.  We learned a bit of history--real and imagined, and directions to a good authentic Mexican Restaurant.  I can't really vouch for the authenticity part, but it was so good, we visited it twice! 

 On another day we walked to the Alamo.  The Drury Inn sits on the river's edge--as you exit the back door, you're at the river; and in the other direction, it's only a few blocks to the Alamo.  I remembered the Alamo, but not as much as I should have.  I forget how intricately carved and really pretty the church is, and how seriously Texans take this shrine.  Yes, it is a Texas State Shrine in honor of the brave men who defended it against the forces from Mexico.  Here you find a roll-call of the great adventurers of the early 19th century.  Unfortunately, far too many of them, Americans, Europeans and Mexicans, died here.    

This tree--a Southern Live Oak--is much more impressive in person than in a little photograph.  If my memory serves me well, it is over 200 years old, and nearly fills the courtyard surrounding it.  We planted six Southern Live Oaks around our patio last year at about this time, and I'm now resolved to keep those sweet trees under control.  The grounds of the Alamo are much bigger than I remembered.  It was a good-sized fort (now nearly covered by San Antonio downtown buildings), but we think mostly of that pretty little mission when we think Alamo.   

 Water, water everywhere--the weather performed exactly as forecast, and on Thursday the rains, wind and cold descended.  We had hoped to ride the River Taxi to the Pearl Brewery, but it would be a chilly and damp hour-long ride.  Being dainty (and old) ladies, we took a cab and ten minutes later were warm and cozy at the Local Coffee shop.  This new area, accessible from the Riverwalk if you don't mind a hike, is historic (the Brewery was founded in 1881) up-to-the-minute modern, quirky, delicious and fun.  Plan on spending an afternoon, and plan on including lunch or dinner, then kick back and relax. 

  

Margie



BACK TO MY FUTURE

About this same time of year in 2012 I posted about my great love for and dependence upon a Daily Planner.  Not just any Daily Planner, but the Perfect Daily Planner.  That year I had discovered Paperblanks and their lovely line of journals, address books and, yes, planners.

I told the story of spotting a particularly beautiful  Paperblanks Planner and even though it allowed only one page per day, and squished Saturday and Sunday together on a single page, I committed. It would be a bit tight, but I decided I could do everything on a slightly smaller calendar scale.  For example, I could use my teensiest-tiniest handwriting to limit all my notes to the daily allotted one inch  As most girls learn early in Kindergarten, beauty trumps all common sense.

Last month, when I visited the Paperblanks website to order my brains for 2015, I was horrified to discover only six choices of planners.  Six not-very-attractive choices of planners.  Beautiful journals but very plain  planners.  Frankly, my planner sets the tone for my entire year, and I was in deep trouble with this website. 

I continued to search the internet and various shops for a 2015 planner but, as the days wore on, I began to realize I had only one choice.  After all the not-so-nice things I had said about Franklin Planners in 2012, I would have to crawl back to them and beg to be forgiven.  And, damn--I hate to do that.

However, minutes after creeping into franklinplanner.com which instantaneously turned into franklinplanner.fcorgp.com (the shopping area--these people are straight to the point) I came across a lovely Italian leather cover on sale for half-price.  Well, they had me there and, as you could guess, I'm ensconced quite comfortably with Franklin once again.  I'm back with two-pages per day; a schedule for my schedules; pages for goals, values, mission and finances...It's truly me.  I love nothing more than delaying a project just one more day by taking one final opportunity to re-plan it, and Franklin?  It provides all the tools I need.

Yes, 2015, has all the makings of another successful year indeed.

Margie

"WISE WOMEN"

A few weeks ago, a friend lent me a book she'd recently purchased, Wise Women.  Sub-titled "A Celebration of Their Insights, Courage and Beauty," this book of photographs is all that and more. The heavy, smooth, matte-finished paper is a tactile pleasure, while the varying shades of sepia used throughout create warmth and comfort as we discover these womens' worlds.  Did I mention the "wise women" are all between the ages of 65 and 100?  And, in this book 100 looks surprisingly good.

Wise Women opens with Zelda Kaplan, aged 85, bright, erect, head held high, who begins her story by sharing: "I used to dance a lot, but unfortunately, all my partners are dead."  Age and Stage at its worst threatens to defeat us, but it doesn't win every time.  Not by a long shot.  We're strong creatures, and if we can't dance, we can always choose to wear hats that make people smile.  Just like Zelda explains.  

Gloria Steinem caught my attention when she wrote:  "Many of us are living out the unlived lives of our mothers, because they were not able to become the unique people they were born to be..." Steinem, a pioneer of the women's movement to the nth degree, no doubt believed what she said that day.  I wonder now if my mother felt unable to be the person she was born to be.  I don't think for a minute I'm living out her ambitions.  If she dreamed at all, she didn't share it with us, and I'm convinced anything she might have considered would be way beyond my meager accomplishments.  However, I'm definitely planning to spend more time with Steinem's comment.  

Christine Lee, at 67, realizing how swiftly the days fly by, offered advice:  "If you wake up in the morning and you have a choice between doing the laundry and taking a walk in the park, go for the walk. You'd hate to die and realize you had spent your last day doing the laundry."  Amen to that, but in my heart of hearts, I know that if someone told me I would die tomorrow, I'd be hard pressed not to clean house all night.

Sadly, this book carries a copyright of 2002 and many of these wonderful ladies aren't with us any more.  But their thoughts remain.  I've only given you a bare taste because I don't want to spoil the feast that awaits when you have a chance to pick up Wise Women.  And, when you do, I would recommend a wonderfully rich latte or a full-bodied Cabernet as an accompaniment..  It's that kind of thoughtful experience.

 Margie     

RETIREMENT COMMUNITY READING

In our neighborhood, we have a variety of little newspapers and magazines filled with advertisements designed just for us.  Us being "Active Adults," poorly disguised code for "Old".

"DON'T DIE IN YOUR BATHROOM!"  God knows, I really hope I don't die in my bathroom, especially before I get rid of the ten-year-old bargain basement towels we're trying to wear out prior to popping for the Pottery Barn set.  This ad promises its readers that "NOW YOU CAN MAINTAIN YOUR LIFESTYLE AND STILL BE SAFE IN YOUR BATHROOM!" simply by installing a walk-in tub.  I don't know...I still see some possible problems, but maybe that's just me.

Next is the neighborhood Funeral Chapel and Cremation Center that will "FORWARD OUT-OF-STATE." Unfortunately, I can only assume it will be me they are forwarding out-of-state, and can I be sure my kids gave the FC&CC the correct address?  They're wonderful children, but there's still a little nagging concern.

Farther down the page, I spot a Private Investigator who specializes in "INSURANCE FRAUD, MORTGAGE FRAUD", and "ADULTRY" (sic).  You may laugh at that, but let me tell you, in the mid-1990s Sun City West suffered a huge adultery outbreak that made national news and still raises eyebrows today. And...Sun City West is where I picked up the little paper this morning.

On a more solemn note, the local flower shop is proud to be "SPECIALIZING IN SYMPATHY DESIGNS FOR FAMILY, FRIENDS AND CORPORATIONS".  Do people send flowers when a Corporation goes face down?  Considering the "Citizens United" Supreme Court decision, it could be and we're overlooking a profitable niche market.

And, finally, (I've got to quit because God may consider this whole exercise pretty tacky) the "GENTAL (sic) WOMAN DENTIST" who offers "PAINLESS DENTISTRY FOR SENIORS."  Under 65?  Brace Yourself!

Margie
All quotes from "Coffee News", September 29, 2014.

SIMPLIFY

I have become a believer that as we age, we ever so slowly but ever so surely, begin to crave simplicity.  For example, I'm not even tempted to join the line in order to purchase an iPhone 6.  Why would I want to do that to myself?  I'm happy with my iPhone 5, and feel confident that I still have a lifetime of challenges in the continuing effort to learn everything there is to know about it.

That's one of the reasons I'm mystified that Hillary Clinton may actually run for president in 2016.  She'll be 69 then and have a decent government pension coming in, at least two gorgeous homes to visit, and entre to some of the greatest parties ever given.  I'm not even mentioning that golden-haired grandchild who should be making an entrance anytime now.  Relax, woman!  Simplify.

To that "simplify" end, I spent three sessions on the telephone with COX Communications yesterday in my long-delayed attempt to clean up our COX Cable Bundle.  And, tell me--when did Bundle become a bad word?  It sounded great in 2003, in the headiness that accompanied our purchase of a home in a COX Community.  Yes, Sun City Grand and its homes were pre-wired for anything COX might dream up in the next hundred years or so.  It's all right there in a gray metal box located above each utility room entry.

With high hopes, I called COX mid-morning, signing in with my phone number, the last four digits of my Social and began answering questions designed to place me in a queue of like-minded callers.  In my case, that would be customers planning to discontinue or down-grade their service.  It is not a high-priority queue.

Call #1 lasted 14 minutes and 22 seconds, at which point, the line went dead.  I had been on hold listening to an abbreviated loop of an Andre Segovia classical guitar piece that I really don't think was Andre Segovia.  It was awfully scratchy.  It occurred to me that COX might deal with customers who are planning to discontinue or down-grade their service by simply clicking them off, but I decided to try again about an hour later.  This time I had a fresh cup of coffee, papers to file, and my cell phone on Speaker.

Call #2 required a hold of 61 minutes and 47 seconds.  I know that seems excessive, but I did get quite a bit of filing done, even though the Segovia guitar really got on my nerves, not to mention the 61 reminders of how important my call was to COX.   Finally, Jessica came on the line. She was, I'm afraid, horrified that we didn't watch HBO, craved only "Essential" COX and didn't give a hoot about "On Demand", but maintained her composure and patience and we reached a friendly impasse.  She kept our account and I kept the phone because dropping it would make my bill go up.  I kept Advanced TV with its plethora of useless additional channels, because keeping it meant I didn't have to pay $120 per year for "The Box."  I asked for time to think about it.   

You know what would really simplify our lives?  A la Carte Cable.  That's right--a la carte cable.  Thousands of channels we never watch makes me crazy; I don't even want them there.  Please, call John McCain right now and tell him you want a la carte cable.  I'm not a huge John McCain fan, but he got on that horse once and I was impressed.  Unfortunately, I don't think that horse ever out-ran the cable companies, though. Even with John McCain in the saddle.

Thanks so much for hanging in here...I'm nearly finished. 

Call #3 netted a hold time of 63 minutes, but when she came on the line  Erica really worked:  I will be saving money and clicking through many fewer channels than before.  I still have a land line because Erica worried I might drop a 911 call if I was on my cell phone and  would never be rescued.  It was sweet and not too costly.  We dropped from Premiere to Preferred in one case and Preferred to Essential in another, and it's OK.  Life is still not as simple as I wish it were, but it's a step in the right direction.

A more simple, but happier Margie

WHAT YOU DON'T KNOW...

The Wall Street Journal has done it to me again...and I haven't even read their editorial page yet.  There, in the Personal Journal section, right-hand side and above the fold, looms the unwelcome headline:  "The Trouble With Keeping Commercial Flights Clean."  I can't deny the veracity of the WSJ although, in this case, I wish I could.  But, honestly speaking, most planes I've flown in the last decade have been filthy...littered with crumbs and used gum; crawling with germs, bacteria and other un-spell-able horrors.

I wouldn't have paid much attention to this article, but BC and I are flying next week.  Twice, if you count both going and coming.  Always a glutton for punishment, I read the entire article and it may be worse than I thought.

One might assume that someone makes the airlines clean their planes and then checks to be sure they actually do it.  We are, after all, a civilized nation...so to speak.  But that assumption would be wrong.  The author of the article checked with the FAA who sent him to OSHA who sent him back to the FAA.  This time, the FAA sent him to the FDA who does indeed inspect food and water "safety" but that's the extent of it.  Outside of the galley, we are on our own.

Whereas, the World Health Organization warns that planes are an ideal means for spreading disease worldwide, they don't get mixed up in it.  We're adults...we've been warned...they've done their job.

As I continued to read, I learned there isn't enough time between domestic flights to do much of anything in the cleanliness arena except pick up the worst of the trash.  It's a bit sketchy, but I think I understood that when the plane sits overnight, its tray tables and seat-back pockets do get cleaned out and wiped down.  Obviously, the lesson here is to be on the first plane in the air on any given day.  We'll be departing at 7:00 a.m.  I hope that's early enough.

So--what's the bottom line?  Never leave home without a goodly supply of anti-bacterial hand wash.  Do not eat the peanuts or crackers until you've used it.  Do NOT, under any circumstances, put your hand into the seat-back pocket.  I'm appalled by what has been found in there.  And, anytime it's available, try booking with Singapore Airlines which notes that it washes its wine-chillers between flights.  I love detail.

Margie

Wall Street Journal, September 18, 2014
Scott McCartney

"FALL OF GIANTS"

Since 2010, I've wanted to read Fall of Giants, Book I of Ken Follett's trilogy about the twentieth century.  I was always put off because it was a long book that would be followed by two more long books and I would probably never get it read since I do well to read the one book a month required by my Book Club, so I never made the effort.  Gasp!  But a couple of weeks ago, I said "to hell with it" and ordered Fall of Giants and Winter of the World (Book II) because Amazon was running a special.  And I've really had a glorious time ever since.

I've always enjoyed history--really, really liked it.  I didn't major in history because it seemed to require a great deal more critical thinking skills than I'd ever possessed, but I'm still a fan.  My favorite history is a well done story set against an historical backdrop with just a little upper class sex thrown in every now and then.  Luckily, Fall of Giants fits that bill.

This afternoon I reached Chapter 7 and Page 186, so I'm definitely on a roll.  Chapter 1 took place in southern Wales in the fictional coal mining village of Aberowen.  While the miners lead their lives of quiet desperation, English nobility hangs out in the great manor house (Ty Gwyn--200 rooms) built directly (literally and figuratively) on top of the mines.  Life is either very good or unbelievably awful.  There is no middle ground. 

Chapter 3 moves the action to Russia where daily living holds even less hope than in Wales.  In St. Petersburg, we're sharing the lives of factory workers and learning that Czar Nicholas II, the one we sometimes feel sorry for because he and his family were gunned down by revolutionaries, was really a rat.

In Chapter 5 and 6, we get to tag along with the diplomatic corps in London as the tensions which eventually lead to World War I continue to build.  We're privy to conversations between and among German, Russian and English diplomats.  They were as sneaky then as we imagine they are now, and nothing happens but what they haven't planned exactly how it should affect their own goals and objectives.  One sentence I read just a few minutes ago especially struck me:  The time is July 1914.  Archduke Franz Ferdinand has been assassinated at Sarajevo, and the diplomats are guessing which alliances may result from that act.  The gist of the conversation is that Russia will never let Austria control the Balkan region because they (Russia) must protect their Black Sea access.  Most of Russia's exports (wheat and oil) were shipped through those ports.  Does anyone remember that in July 2014, Vladamir Putin said exactly the same thing as he tried to justify taking over Crimea and threatening the Ukraine?  And they say "history repeats itself."  I guess so!

Well, that catches you up and, I do hope you give Fall of Giants a try.  I'd write more, but I've got to get back to the book, so take care and enjoy whatever you might be reading. Remember, it's all good unless it's really lousy and life is too short for that.

Margie        

ELEVATED

In 1960, when Del Webb created Sun City, Arizona, and realized it was good...very, very good for his bottom line, he purchased additional land and set about planning, designing and building its sister city, Sun City West, Arizona. Once again, he saw that it was very good.  Del Webb was on a roll.

In the mid-1990s, he crossed Grand Avenue, and transformed desert and dust-blown cotton fields into a luxurious golf course community, calling it Sun City Grand.  Del Webb had created his piece de resistance.  It would get no better than this.

All those who moved into Sun City Grand knew that was true.  They looked at each other with no little sense of awe and gasped, "We're the lucky ones."  And they were.  Simply being born when they were born qualified them to purchase a home and live in this grandest of all age-restricted communities.  Everything was new.  Everything glistened in the blazing Arizona sun.  The community's color scheme met Pantene's approval.  A carefully designed, always sparkling river flowed through the center of the Village, curving artfully here and there to create sheltered seating areas under the ficus trees.  Commerce (with the exception of two banks and one pharmacy) was banned. 

Last year, Sun City West stunned the West Valley by announcing that it would tear down its "Sundome", a huge performing arts center that Del Webb had built for that community many years ago.  Times change, tastes change, and the performing artists of the ''50s,' 60s and '70s  who had filled the Sundome to capacity were dropping over faster than replacements could be found.  So...out with the Sundome, and in with the newest and most modern Fry's grocery store in the entire United States.  In Sun City West.  Sun City Grand sniffed, but they wouldn't have wanted it anyway.

Until last week.  The Grand Opening of Fry's.  A Fry's with acres of artfully arranged fresh fruits and vegetables.  Aisle upon aisle of frozen meals (retirees hate to cook).  Warm, crusty, chewy artisan bread.  Fresh meat labeled "Prime."  Fresh shrimp larger than your hand.  Brand-new-clean grocery carts.  Staff who will not only tell you where to find popcorn, they beg to escort you there.  Beers from around the world.

And somewhere, in the midst of this overwhelming excess, you come upon "Elevate."  A rather attractive wine and cheese bar.  A real wine and cheese bar.  (Wine by the glass, beer on tap.) In the middle of the grocery store.  I don't know who thought of this, but God bless them.  I hope it catches on.

 

Cheers!

Margie

"HUMANS OF NEW YORK"

I know I'm pretty darned late to this party, but as an older resident of an age-restricted-adult community, that can happen quicker than you might think.  Here's the deal.  A few months ago, a much younger friend of mine "liked" a posting on Facebook called "Humans of New York," which meant, as far as I can tell, that since she liked it and she was my friend, it showed up on my News Feed with (more or less) her recommendation.  Apparently I had a few minutes that morning, so I checked out the photo and read the post...going so far as to click on "continue reading."  I personally liked it, decided to Facebook "like it", and I've read nearly every post since.

If you're already hooked on HONY, there's probably no need to keep on reading as you may know more than I do; but, if you're not, please hang in here and see if the concept appeals to you.

In 2010 (this is what I mean about "late to the party"), a young man named Brandon Stanton lost his job as a bond-trader, so he picked up a camera and began to wander the streets of New York taking photos of passers-by while interviewing them.  Bond traders are notoriously gutsy people, so his background provided perfect training for approaching strangers while focusing a camera and clutching a notepad.  His photo-blog, "Humans of New York" became one of the most frequently read, recommended, and highly-praised blogs around.

As far as I know, most of his work is done in New York, but he does travel from time to time.  For the remainder of September he will be completing a United Nations-sponsored road-trip begun last month to ten countries in fifty days.  Today (09/04/14), he's posting from South Sudan--specifically, from the "Confident Children out of Conflict Center" in the town of Juba.  The stories run the gamut, so don't think you're going to be depressed every day.  One today made me laugh (boys will be boys sort of thing), and the other two made me happy in a soul-filling-spiritual-singing sort of way (a mother and her four-year-old-son reunited, and a little girl emotionally breaking through a past trauma.)

For me, "Humans of New York" is a perfect vehicle to prove that we ALL (ALL is not a typo) share love and hope and despair and joy and sorrow and loss and grief, not to mention humor and honesty exactly the same.  Gender doesn't matter, color doesn't count, age doesn't separate, wealth doesn't protect.  We are all part of the same whole.  We are inter-dependent.  We can't exist if we ALL don't exist.  Hearing and listening, reading and understanding can't help but make this a better world.  And, we need a better world.  Badly.

In all honesty, even though I've learned and enjoyed and opened my heart to Brandon's stories from the Middle East and Africa, I'll be learning just as much when he returns to New York.  I love the result when he runs into an older (read OLDER) couple and asks how they met, or what did they did on their first date.  Those old guys and gals will blow you away.  I hope I get old with that much panache!

Enjoy!
humansofnewyork.com 


Margie

BEIGE UPON BEIGE

I've had quite a lot of time on my hands this summer.  More time on my hands than I've had for years.  For decades, really.  I was excited when I realized I would be enjoying a few weeks with time on my hands.  I could read all the magazines I've subscribed to, and all the books I've purchased because, you know, it's so darned easy to purchase a book from Amazon.  Push a button and, within minutes, Amazon Prime is pulling up to your door, or the latest best-seller pops right into your Kindle.  It's like a miracle.

And now, a few weeks later, even though I hate to admit this, time on my hands has weighed heavily.  But let me tell you what might really be happening here.  We came to Sun City Grand in the fall of 2001, and moved into this house exactly two years later.  We did what all new SCG owners do.  We carefully chose our flooring--a lovely beige tile.  We debated paint colors...limited though they were to various shades of...beige.  We analyzed cabinets and argued over countertops.  We spent a day in the "Design Studio" choosing this and that and every other thing you might imagine.  If you had a really big house, you spent two days in there.  I'm not even sure they let those people out for the night.  I can't imagine how big-house-people survived.  We were exhausted just deciding how to decorate one of the smaller homes.

We were, though, really happy with our choices.  We have an extremely neutral but very comfortable house.  I think people feel like they can relax when they walk in.  At the time we thought it really looked like a classy resort.  That, I think, was because we went just a little heavy on the tropical theme, as evidenced by  the variety and number of palm trees in our great room.

Having all this time on my hands made me realize that in the last eleven years we have not made one single decorative change to this house.  Not even a  pillow--although I've turned down hundreds of corners on pages from Pottery Barn's  monthly catalogs.   That situation (no decorative changes) is way, way out of character for me and I didn't even realize it was happening.  I'm afraid I reached, and unconsciously passed, another AGE & STAGE milestone.  It's the saboteur milestone whispering  that even  though your house is a little dated, it looks just fine.  It's the geriatric milestone discouraging those of a certain age from taking on redecorating projects because of the mess or the hassle, the dust and the discomfort.  It's the masculine milestone tells your  husband that your house is not dull and dingy.  It's "comfy and homey."  It is not a good milestone to reach.  In my case it's a frightening milestone because (may I please repeat)  it is so against my nature.  AGE & STAGE can be scary sometimes.  You wake up one morning, look at yourself and realize not only are you turning into your mother, you've been your mother for a number of years. 

My mother stopped redecorating shortly after I graduated high school and, now that I think about it, she went pretty neutral just like I have.  She decided on off-white, I chose beige.  I had one of the most colorful houses in all of Dodge City before our move to Arizona.  Oftentimes, when someone walked in our front door, you could hear their gasp as the bright colors and busy prints shocked them speechless.  My mother, in her younger days, leaned heavily toward green walls and carpet, had a bright red kitchen and  two very cool mid-century chairs (when mid-century was really mid-century) in the damnedest shade of orange you've ever seen.  We later learned she had really bad cataracts and wasn't completely responsible for those choices. I, by contrast, had no such excuses.

But now, it looks to me like we have yet another challenge on our hands in this AGE & STAGE experiment.  Do I settle, or do I begin looking at paint samples?  Should we consider hardwood, yet more tile or textured carpet?  Will BC get on board?  Will BC leave me?  Will someone haul off our oversized entertainment center?

It's an exhausting conundrum...   

Margie 

WHAT I LEARNED FROM MY FIRST JOB

In honor of Labor Day, I've decided to join the crowd who were urged to write on the topic of:  "What I Learned From My First Job."  Actually, as I look around, I'm afraid I'm not seeing a crowd at all...and, I really can't remember if I read about this project in the newspaper or saw something on Facebook, or maybe it was TV?  I do know it was important enough for me to make a note in my calendar (write on "What I Learned..."), so let's just get on with it.

First of all, because I'm getting older every day, it took me more than a few minutes to remember just what my first job had been.  I think it was during my senior year in high school when I worked temporarily--a pretty short-lived temporarily--for a local law firm which had expressed a need to Sister Vincentia, the principal of St. Mary of the Plains High School, for a temporary worker to do some typing and filing at their office, as well as doing something connected with  micro-filming at the local courthouse. Since I often helped Sister Vincentia in her office, she recommended me for the position.  I was promised a small stipend as well as the chance to actually type like a real secretary--my life's ambition at that time.  The job would last through Christmas break and, if all went well, there might be an opportunity for part-time work after school started again.  Obviously, everything would go well.

Advice #1:  Hold down the cockiness.
Way too early on my first day at work, I discovered that typing is typing no matter what you're typing, but that attention to detail regarding format, correct spelling, and impeccable grammar were imperative for legal documents.  Missing (or misspelled) words could make or break an otherwise flawless court case.

Advice #2:  Pay close attention to instructions, take notes and ask pertinent questions.  Perfection is key.  Progress doesn't count.
In addition to typing, I was charged with filing piles of documents (legalese for papers) that had been collecting for years.  The File Room, crammed with aging, scratched and dented filing cabinets lacked windows, as well as any form of ventilation.  Those of you who believe that mindless typing is boring, have never spent endless hours filing endless piles of "documents".  When I had imagined myself as a cute, well-dressed, and efficient secretary, I had not anticipated this hell hole buried under its stacks of paper...nor me having to spend so many hours in it.

Advice #3:  Be careful what you wish for.  Case out the job before you commit.  Demand details.
Finally, the microfilm/microfiche thing at the courthouse.  This was the magnificent part of my position.  I--certainly the youngest secretary ever to enter those courthouse doors--loved the short walk from the office to that classical white marble (limestone?) building, gaining admittance and walking directly to the inner sanctum that held the microfilm/microfiche...whatever it was...machines.  It seems to me that I was given a listing of file-numbers that would match with each separate film/fiche thing that I was to copy for the office.  Roll to the correct document, press a button, and a copy would be made and delivered to the office the next morning.  Obviously, it was a detailed type of job.  One that needed to be carefully and accurately done...not so much because my time was valuable (the pittance I received was...well, a pittance), but apparently the copy fees were frighteningly steep.

Except for missing the gossip I would hear every day at the office, working at the courthouse was my favorite professional activity until...disaster struck.  Yes, I completely forgot to write down my ending file-number one afternoon and panicked the next morning as microfilm began to flash in front of my face and I had no idea where I had been or where I needed to start.  I was young.  I was scared.  I started copying anyway.  I was stupid.  I was let go.

Advice #4:  When in trouble, ask for help.  Ask quickly before things get worse.  Someone knows the answer.  In this case, yesterday's copies were at the office.  Yesterday's copies would have indicated today's starting number.  My career would have ended much differently.   Amen. 

Enjoy your long weekend!
Margie      

SAVANNAH, GEORGIA

We're coming up on that time of year when my sister and I begin to discuss where we will go for our Almost-Annual-Sisters-Weekend-Getaway.  We began this tradition a few years ago in Chicago, and have visited Charleston, SC, and Savannah, GA, since then.  Whereas, I always feel badly leaving BC at home by himself, I love my time with Mary.  We sleep in every morning, talk until late, late every night and, simply put, enjoy each other and our time together.  I know our poor mother in heaven is watching the two of us with some semblance of disbelief.  Our childhood years were difficult, involving a fair amount of screaming, crying, and tattling, all of which we later paid for while raising our own sweet children.

Mary and I have taken to reserving Historic B&B's for the great breakfasts, of course; but also for the genteel atmosphere and the blessed late afternoon wine and hors d'oeurves hour(s).  The Eliza Thompson House in Savannah completely fit the bill for us, and I recommend it.  It's built around a lovely courtyard in which both breakfast and wine-time are centered.

Rather late on our first morning in Savannah, a couple of years ago, we gathered up a map of their Historic District and began checking out our neighborhood.  Just a few blocks south of Eliza Thompson, we wandered into Forsyth Park.  This beautiful fountain is obviously a gathering spot and why not... Our brochure mentioned the fountain had been built in 1858 based on the design of a Paris fountain near the Place de la Concorde.  I'm not sure what that one may look like, but this one is good enough for me.

We visited Savannah very late in October; I think the date of this photo was the 23rd.  Our weather was gorgeous.  We enjoyed sunshine every day, nary a drop of rain, no wind, and a light sweater was perfect for evening or an outdoor lunch in the shade. Apparently, Halloween is a really big thing and many of the doorsteps were decorated similarly to this one located just a few doors down from our B&B. As soon as I returned to Phoenix, I bought a couple of pumpkins and a pot of posies, but the effect just wasn't the same.

I love my sister, Mary.  You can take her anywhere and she immediately looks like she is "To the Manor Born."  I, by contrast, am often mistaken for the servant girl, but thus is life.

If you've read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. this is the Mercer-Williams House where the evil deed occurred.  Just behind the windows on the lower left if you're wondering.  It's a beautiful house--our group gathered and then entered from the courtyard in the rear.  I've read reviews in which people are quite unhappy because the tour is limited to the first floor, and I understand wanting to see it all, but I'm OK just being inside where all of the wild parties and etc...went on. Imagination is a great thing.  It generally serves me quite well.  It's really a large house when you realize the square footage, but my guess is it's proportioned so well you don't feel the massiveness...which makes it seem more real and livable.

After our day of wandering through the historic neighborhood, which included a typical leisurely lunch, we climbed the stairs of the entry to Eliza Thompson just in time for the late afternoon wine and appetizer spread.  Great timing!  One feels a bit elegant sipping perfectly chilled white wine in this drawing room.  It's beautiful and cushy, but we quickly escaped to the courtyard, where we put our feet up and enjoyed the cool breeze under the massive trees.  We had definitely found our spot.

"THE GOLDFINCH"

Oops!  I'm afraid I have been found out.  Busted.  Exposed to the world.  It appears that BC, my sweet caregiver, after nearly three weeks of cooking, cleaning and miscellaneous laundry duty, suspects that I have been malingering.  Moi? Malingering?

My defense--and, frankly, I would submit that you might be doing the exact same thing if you, like me, had both the excuse (training a new hip, for example) and a really great, and very long book at your side all hours of the day and night.  Those two circumstances call for a little "lay down" every once in awhile in a comfortable bed with some intellectual entertainment, which, God knows, daytime TV is not going to provide.  The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt fit the bill to perfection.

I think The Goldfinch is categorized as Literary Fiction and I'm learning I like Literary Fiction.  I'm not going to pretend I understand everything I've read in this book, but I do enjoy a meaty story.  And, for me, The Goldfinch has been meaty, plus neat and tidy, and most expertly written.  I've been thinking about the flow of life over the past week or two (it's the Life Coach, you know) and Tartt's book, populated by her unique characters, flows.  Sometimes, that flow is tortuous and twisting, turning and winding around on itself.  But occasionally, we can lean back and enjoy blessed stretches of smooth water even if, ever so subtly, we perceive the muted roar of deadly rapids just ahead. 

As for those characters?  They are legion.  And, as far as describing them I'm at a loss because, silly as it sounds, they are so realistic they become indescribable. They are by turn generous and selfish; lovable but disappointing; kind and conniving; mysterious and nefarious with occasional glimpses of a soul.  Actually though, I loved that they were complex.  For me, that makes a good book...although I so wanted to interrupt Theo from time to time and ask him to please rethink that latest really bad decision.  I don't believe there was a single "flat" character in this book, with the possible exception of Theo's father who, in my opinion, had no redeeming values.  None.         

Because I'm in love with New York City, and much of the book takes place there, I fell into it immediately.  I could easily imagine the street scenes that Theo described, the buildings he walked past, the park with its memories of his mother, and the characters hanging out on nearly every corner.  It was as if I were there beside him smelling the flowers, speaking above the din, and watching the trees slowly fade into winter.

The book turns darker when Theo's father makes an unexpected (and unwelcome) appearance in order to re-connect with Theo and take him back to Las Vegas where he is currently hanging out.  I'm not a Las Vegas fan.  I live about four hours from Sin City and, in all honesty, I'll probably never visit there.  But, Tartt's descriptions of Las Vegas were spot on.  She nailed the abandoned housing development (3,000 square foot stucco behemoths in all stages of construction; dirt lots scraped bare; trash flying in the unrelenting wind.)  We saw that here in the west valley of Phoenix and it's as depressing as Theo's life during the long months before he was able to grab the dog and escape back to New York.  Tartt can set the scene and create atmosphere.  No doubt about it.

No, I haven't forgotten the Goldfinch...although as I read I would sometimes turn page after page and not think of him at all.  But, he is an insidious little creature and always manages to come to the forefront again and again creating yet another round of lust or anger or hate or lies or...murder. Obviously, that makes for a good read.  A really good read.  I'm eager to see what the rest of the Book Club thinks.  We're a close-knit but diverse group.  It will be interesting.

Love to All--
Margie

FAVORITE SPOTS: POSTINO

Since I'm a little low on travel photos this week, let's stay closer to home and look at one of (if not the) favorite lunch spot when we're out and about.  It's Postino on Central.  Although Postino in Arcadia is equally delicious, as is the baby of the family, Postino in Gilbert.  Yes, we've been to all three (although Gilbert is a real hike) just to be sure they're as good as we think they are.

I'm huge on atmosphere, and I have no idea exactly what creates that magic but, in my world,  Postino has it in spades.  I particularly like the patio in Arcadia and the inside coziness on Central.  The only time I've been in Gilbert, it was packed to the rafters, so I definitely need a return visit to find my special place there.

Since we're part of the lunch/afternoon crowd, we're mightily impressed with the great selection of wine for $5.00 a pop, and all the time in the world to sip and relax with it and each other.  I hope Postino continues to realize what a valuable commodity that is.

In our world, we must start with bruschetta or the experience just isn't the same.  I believe Postino offers twelve choices and I don't think you'd go wrong with any of them.  I avoid the smoked salmon, but BC eats it first.  So, it's obviously all about personal choice.  For example, here are a couple of choices from a recent trip to the Central Avenue location with a friend.

 Followed within a week or two by these choices at the Arcadia location when our daughter and husband flew into town.

 And no, it won't be too much to add the Butcher's Block if there are three or four of you.  Actually, it comes out just right.

 
Don't worry.  Postino doesn't begin and end with gorgeous appetizers.  They also offer Soup of the Moment, Salads and Sandwiches, and any combination thereof.  Our servers have always been super accommodating with our requests to split or combine this with that...or that with that.  They're very kind.

Everyone I've taken to Postino has loved it, and commented that we've never been rushed, never felt that we've sat too long or laughed too much.  Even my conservative son-in-law, who travels the world for business and grades each country according to its availability of Coors Light, has learned that Postino will satisfy his need for the "closest taste" to the canned stuff and do it well.  That, and small pitchers for $5.00 won him over.

Perhaps, the only thing we notice about Postino (and it's not a bad thing) is that we are, hands down, always the oldest people in the building.  To their credit, no one has ever alluded to our age, called us "honey", or suggested we might be more comfortable if we chose a regular table rather than our favorite high-top.  We firmly believe that climbing up to a high-top keeps a person young. 

The sad thing about the age deal is that I know the sweet young customers sitting around us are thinking that they will never allow themselves to become this old.  And, for sure, never look this old as they become this old.  They will.  But, trust me, it helps if you just relax and enjoy it.

HOME ALONE

My Sweet Babboo, BC, flew the coop last Sunday to go fishing in the wilds of Canada.  To be specific, on God's Lake which is somewhere in Manitoba.  It's one of those trips that requires new, different, better and heavier equipment--much heavier.  That is always music to the ears of a fisherman.  He and his friends will be fly-fishing for Northern Pike, Walleye, Lake Trout and, perhaps Brook Trout.  I'm hopeful that nothing as yet has pulled BC out of the boat and played him to the point of exhaustion.  Did I mention these fish will be large?  I wonder if they will require a wide-angle lens for the photos I hope to see?  I'll definitely pass them on if that is the case.

In the meantime, I am home alone.  Don't feel badly.  I often look forward to being home alone.  My relationship with BC is excellent, but one of my biggest luxuries is the peace and quiet to do what I want or need to do, when I want or need to do it, in the manner in which I want or need to do it, taking just as long or short a time as seems right.  That is my idea of heaven.  One of them anyway.  I lived alone for a number of years during my adult life.  It can spoil a person.

My intentions this week have been to clean the house from top to bottom, clearing out any extraneous items and delivering them to Goodwill; Meditating and exercising daily; Eating right and losing five pounds; and finally, searching for the perfect Rose wine from the Provence region of France that the Wall Street Journal so temptingly wrote about last week.

My actions this week have been to finish watching Season Six of Mad Men and move into Season Seven.  Season Seven is very dark and a little depressing and, at the moment, it looks like everything is going to hell in a handbasket.  It's a bit of a chore to watch but I can't help myself.

On the bright side, I have cleaned out our pantry and refrigerator.  I have to do that when BC is out of town because he has never met a food that has gone so bad or is so outdated he can't eat it to avoid wasting it.  I worry about him, but it's easier to let him stuff it down his throat  than for me to justify stuffing it down the disposal.  If he ever keels over, just know it wasn't my fault.

I've also cleaned my half of the Master Closet and it does look much nicer.  I love the ring to "Master Closet".  I've never had one before.  Sadly, however, what looked so wonderful empty as we wandered through the spec home, doesn't look nearly as promising when it's full of clothes.  Actually, the little twenty-somethings who House Hunt on HGTV would walk away in total disgust if they saw it.  I think they'd go for the kitchen, but they'd be merciless over that closet.    

Back to the dark side--I somehow managed to completely erase (and yes, they're erased) 193 professional photos taken in Mexico of our family.  I was trying to download them to Adobe Elements to use them in last Friday's post, but instead I wiped them out faster than I could blink, think or scream.  I didn't know my computer had that kind of speed.  Fortunately, each sub-family in our group also has a disc so they're coming to my rescue.

I thought I'd get way ahead on posting for the Generalist, but that hasn't happened and I can't explain why.  Wouldn't it be something if BC really is my muse and I need him here to do my little bit of creativeness?  That would be totally unexpected but pretty awesome.

And, finally, I've begun the August selection for Book Club--The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt.  It won a Pulitzer Prize which means that I will probably like it.  I can be so unsure of things, I really appreciate affirmation.  What better than a Pulitzer?   It's forever long--12,553 locations per my Kindle.  That will be a definite push for me to read  in a month.  So, if you don't hear from me, my head will be buried in that sweet little reading device of mine.

Take care and stay out of the sun.  I'm still peeling from Mexico and my dermatologist is going to have a fit.

Margie 

"THE OBITUARY WRITER"

I just finished July's Book Club selection, The Obituary Writer, by Ann Hood.  It was a fairly quick read--even for me--but in the end, I couldn't shake the vague feeling that I would like to have all those hours back for some other purpose.

When Kathy announced the title, I dropped by Amazon to check it out.  Regarding Book Club, I always read reviews in order to know whether to purchase a hardback copy, a paperback, a Kindle download, or simply visit the library and save the money.  In this case, Amazon sprinkled enough Fairy Dust over the page to make it seem worth the $8.41 download.

As with our May selection, this is one more novel in which two characters alternate chapters.  Vivien, the obituary writer of the title, inhabits 1919 San Francisco.  Claire, a young wife and mother, lives in a 1961 D.C. suburb while her husband climbs the civil-service ladder at the Department of the Navy.

Vivien is definitely my favorite of the two.  She moves through a San Francisco and Napa Valley that have depth and description to them.  I can envision her "love nest" that David purchased before he disappeared in the 1906 San Francisco earthquake; as well as the office cum cozy apartment she pulled together later when her writing career began to flourish.  Vivien was real to me.  She was a sympathetic character who, quite realistically, didn't always make the best choices, but I was with her all the way.

Claire, unfortunately, is an entirely different matter.  Perhaps the problem is that I remember 1961 and I don't see or feel any of it here.  Ann Hood seemed to be up against a brick wall, and no matter what she threw at it--distracted husband, whiny baby, lonely housewife--none of it rang true.  She tried, but cocktails and Cheez Whiz was a lousy way to define the era.

Not to beat a dead horse, but poor Claire has the personality of a paper doll and, as the book progresses, the common-sense of a fig.  Yes, her husband is dry and dull, but her solution--an affair, in her own home, in the middle of the day, with no protection of any sort--will obviously end badly. 

And, don't even get me started on her obsession with Jack and Jackie Kennedy.  Those lines pop up out of nowhere with absolutely nothing to give them weight.  If you want obsession with Jack and Jackie, talk to me.  Claire is an amateur.

Claire and Vivien's paths do indeed cross  toward the end of the book.  If I know it's going to happen before it happens (and I did), you'll have it figured out within minutes of opening the book.  That meeting pulls everything together in a tidy little package, but it's too pat for me.  One assumes that Ann Hood plans for everyone to become a better person because of this encounter.  I'm not sure that will happen.  I'm hoping they'll just grow up a bit.

Margie

PS:  Sadly, I still do not have enough self-confidence to write this way about a book and not feel badly but, I've only got so much time left, and The Obituary Writer took too much of it.  I'm happy for Ann Hood though.  She actually wrote a book, had it published and it ranks #17,180 in the Kindle Store and #405,470 in Amazon books.  She is way ahead of me.     

DREAMS--PUERTO AVENTURAS

Is it Friday already?  When a person decides to blog and post three times a week, each one of those days hits her in the face before she's picked herself up from the one before.  Really, it's a silly thing for an older person to blog on a schedule, because under the best of circumstances, the days fly by us at whiplash speed.  It's a known scientific phenomenon.

Nonetheless, it is still Friday and that means we need to be somewhere besides where we are.  Let's go to Mexico.  Grandma is celebrating a milestone birthday this year.  Actually, it feels more like a MILESTONE BIRTHDAY.  Yes, that's more like it.  So, how better to do that than gather the entire clan at an all-inclusive resort along the Caribbean coast of Mexico.  And that's exactly what we did last week.

We number twenty-two and range in age from seventy-seven (not me) down to two-and-a-half.  We settled on a family-friendly resort called Dreams Puerto Aventuras which is located about an hour or so south of Cancun and a short hour north of Tulum.  The ocean here is a beautiful blue, the waves are relatively gentle, fish are thick and perfect for non-threatening shallow snorkeling, and handsome young men or beautiful young women are at the ready to fill your order for an all-inclusive pastel-colored drink.  It's just short of heaven.

Am I right?  I'm standing on our balcony looking out toward the water.

Now I'm leaning over the balcony just a bit to check out the family pool.  My grandchildren & greats--ages five to ten--are all parked at the swim-up bar under the thatched roof.  It took them nearly five minutes to find the bar and begin ordering.  Some might suggest they are chips off the old block.  All I know is that the bartender at the family pool is a saint in the making.

Moving on, we had read about a little pool (A tidal pool, perhaps?  I wouldn't know, I'm from Kansas.) Just head out the "Family Pool" door, bear right, and you'll find it.  BC helped all the kids feed the fish, but the fish were so aggressive none of them would put a toe in afterward.  Scared them to death.  Beautiful, though.

  

 We suffered the normal stresses of today's travel.  Some planes were late.  One was cancelled.  There was weather in Dallas.  My guess is there is always weather in Dallas.  But we all made it.  Our rooms were very nice (we were on the recommended seventh floor) and nearly all of them matched our request.  Apparently, in the world of Dreams, reservations are requests.  I can't explain it. 

This isn't Dreams but it gives you an idea of the neighborhood.

 

Before this vacation, as I was fixating on all that could go wrong, I began telling my kids that the next best thing to an absolutely wonderful vacation is an absolutely horrible vacation.  I read that somewhere; the premise being there will be lots to laugh about.  Well, another little vagary with Dreams and their six really nice restaurants is that a large group absolutely blows them away.  We're an independent bunch, so we simply split up into smaller groups and enjoyed a different restaurant every night.  Some ate early, some ate late.  Some dressed, some didn't.  Did I mention that in all of the restaurants there are no reservations.  It is strictly First Come-First Served.  It's OK unless you want to reserve for a large group.  You can't.

Last Saturday night, twelve of us decided to visit the Italian Restaurant which generally gets rave reviews.  It's called Portofino.  We wandered down and were reminded (kindly) that Portofino has a dress code.  Men must wear long pants and dress shoes.  So, son Michael and grandson Collin walked back to their room to change.  Seating twelve was problematic, but we waited quite comfortably on Portofino's patio, chatted, and sipped on a little wine.  We were quite content until we realized Michael and Collin hadn't come back.  A quick search led us to the hotel lobby where a crowd had gathered near the elevators.  The elevator on the left which had been temperamental all week, was now stuck and the doors wouldn't open.  Long story longer, Michael and Collin were in that elevator which, fortunately, also contained three football-types who proceeded to rip open the doors so everyone could pour out...literally.  It was an oven in there.

I know it's been a long story but it's good.  Michael met with the Director of Sales who quite graciously asked, "What can we do to make this right?" while no doubt cringing and expecting demands for compensation.  My sweet boy answered (the short version) that he would like Dreams to allow all twenty-two of us to sit together the next night at Portofino for a birthday dinner for his mother.  You gotta love that thought.  And that's just what we did.  We were seated at two tables on a covered porch looking over the beach.  We had privacy, a gentle refreshing breeze, impeccable attention, and a short visit from the Sales Director himself.  It couldn't have been nicer.  All is well that finishes well.  And this was perfect.

Thanks to BC and my great family, this was absolutely the best birtd I've ever had.

Margie aka GeGe (GG)