the art of plumbing

It was never our intention to spend our spring holiday driving the bucolic American midlands counting cows, drinking beer and sampling local cheeses.

Our original plan was to be sailing the Greek Isles, counting Olympic deities, drinking ouzo and dancing in happy circles while smashing plates on the floor. Unfortunately, events conspired against us on the home front forcing an abrupt change of direction, and thus it was that we found ourselves standing, not before the throne room of the Palace at Knossos but here, in Wisconsin, contemplating the throne room of the Design Center of Kohler.

And quite a sight it was.

Turk had wanted to visit the Design Center in anticipation of remodeling the guest bath which, like it's owner, is sorely in need of a face lift. I went along with the idea, expecting it to be about as interesting as a trip to Home Depot. I could not have been more wrong.

It was 36,000 square feet of pure enchantment, and I found myself falling in love with plumbing fixtures in a way that bordered on the indecent. I wanted to have an intimate relationship with these bathrooms; to whisper sweet nothings to these kitchens whose glamour and beauty surpassed anything I'd witnessed before. I wanted to marry these appliances and whisk them and their magical environments home, where they would transform my world. I was smitten.

Weather it was the baroque beauty of the Marie Antoinette Versailles-inspired apartment, the clever insouciance of a beachy bathroom loft or the cheeky allure of a bejeweled little bedazzler all tarted up for a night on the town, I was lost in a dream of how life was meant to be lived. In full color. With hand painted sinks, fancy fixtures and excellent water pressure.

A group of about six of us stood in awed wonder before a shower, each taking turns to press the button that would cause a waterfall to come thundering down, adding to the eleven jets already shooting forcefully away. Like a small group of Aborigines seeing an airplane for the first time, we laughed and pointed in amazement, fairly clapping with glee. A shower like that could make a grown man cry, cause a woman leave her husband. A child would almost certainly need to take swimming lessons.

A little over $7 grand and it could be ours. Nothing would have made me happier.

"Want to put it in the guest bath?" I asked my husband.

"Only if we promise never, ever to have any guests," he whispered.

I have to admit, I have been in art galleries I haven't enjoyed half so much. And there was traditional art here too, of the porcelain variety, which I quite liked, as well as early magazine ads diplayed alongside the original oil paintings.

Unabashadly kitsch, I found them nonetheless charming for it, the colors as clear and cheerful as the day they were painted.



In the end I chose my two favorites: what I call the Breakfast at Tiffany's Manhattan kitchen, and the ultimate Absolute Zen bath.

And that is what paradise looks like to me.

the bitter end

I just got back last night from San Diego, where we spent the weekend attempting to celebrate the tragedy of my continued decline.


We enjoyed ourselves immensely, of course, because that is what one does when there is no other recourse. One dons a clever outfit, checks into a hotel of fading but determined elegance and, martini in hand, remarks gaily on the metaphor.

One then goes on to dine regally on lamb and baby carrots and an excellent Cabernet, and hits the Gas Lamp District of an historic port town. There, one toasts the passing of youth in the company of passing youth with all the dignity an aging good time girl can muster. Oddly enough, this is considerable, as I have decided to be uncharacteristically philosophical in my dotage. Because that's what we old broads do ~ we turn wise. Overnight, in elegant hotels. It happens.

At the irresistibly named Bitter End, a cheerful Turk was making himself quite popular with the local singles, and at one point seemed on the verge of establishing himself as resident matchmaker. I smile benignly, at peace with my role as resident dowager. We will go, he and I, a pair of Elderly Superheroes, travelling from town to town, spreading love and joy and dollar bills coast to coast, uniting young people with appropriate partners and/or soul mates, listening to their tales of woe and dispensing our hard earned wisdom with bon mots and sympathetic ears. I order a Guinness and enjoy the warm glow that comes from selflessly doing good solely for the benefit of others. And also from drinking Guinness.

At our favorite romantic spot in Laguna Beach, we dine on the terrace and are disappointed that everyone is already paired up and our presence here is not required. We stay anyway, and reflect on our reflections. It's a Superheroe's Holiday, and we linger past sunset. I stare into the ocean, drinking deeply of breeze and brine. I want to stride out and dive in, spinning and twirling beneath air and sunlight in the cool black blue of unlimited time and space. Just as I always have. I do not feel old. I look old. But I feel timeless.

sketchbook diaries

Playing around with my new Adobe Elements 5.0 ~ an old sketch with new text addition imposed, thanks to the Miracle that is Photoshop. Several hours and many FCC-banned words later (I swear I still do not get the whole layer issue ~ just do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it, OK? I'll let you know if I want to change my mind. When I say SAVE, you say HOW MANY? And when I say EDIT, you best let me at the whole text...) I do understand that I could actually just have written on the actual page. With an actual pen. Just as we all do, everyday. Woulda taken' one, two minutes tops. Silly girl, with your silly time-saving devices. When will you ever learn?

Still. What fun would it be if it didn't involve much saving and tossing about of psds, jpgs, bss' and gds?

None, of course. It is what it is. A pleasantly indolent way to recover from yesterday's barbecue. I love my parties.

in from the cold

"Go down three lights and make a left across the bridge," the bartender was saying. "About two blocks in you'll come to an alley. It's just an alley but don't worry; you go down that alley. Halfway down you'll see a door. It says 'import/export' or something; never mind ~ go in. Inside you won't see a door, but there is one behind the bookcase. Pull the lever, and you're in."

I looked at my husband, eyes wide.

"Oh, we have so got to go there," I whispered. The couple left ~ they did look a little shady, now that I thought about it. I raised an eyebrow and cocked my head. The bartender came over.

"I couldn't help but overhear," I lied, sotto voce, trying to look like someone who could be trusted with a secret. "What is this place you were telling them about?"

"You'll love it," he said. He repeated his instructions.

"Can we walk from here?"

"Sure."

Leaving, I tried to buy a postcard with a picture of Buck Bradley's beautiful bar. With a wink and a nod, the barman insisted instead on giving me a few.

"I love Milwaukee," I told my husband.

"I know, dear," he replied.



Safe house: "A seemingly innocent house or premise established by an intelligence organization for conducting clandestine or covert activities in relative security."
~ CIA intelligence Officer Glossary

We came to the door marked "International Exports Ltd" and entered. Inside we found ourselves in a narrow entryway about the size of an 19th century elevator, surrounded by dusty bookshelves and the assorted paraphernalia of several decades ago; an old phone, an ancient cash register. I think there was a leather chair. I looked at Turk.

"I have no idea," he said. Gazing upward, we looked for a lever hidden somewhere amid the books.

Just then the door opened behind us and a man in a blue baseball cap with a boy of about 6 years of age in tow entered. Walking immediately over to the cash register, he pulled the handle and one of the bookcases swung open, revealing a narrow, winding staircase.

I clapped my hands delightedly. "I used to work here," he said a little sheepishly. Ascending, we entered a parallel universe; one as envisioned by Ian Fleming with a little help from the imagineers at Disney. And maybe a cocktail or two.

Rife with jokes and heavy on visual puns, The Safe House* is a fully realized tribute to the fun and frolic that was the James Bondian version of the Cold War. You either love this sort of thing or you don't. It should come as no surprise to anybody that we are firmly entrenched in the former category.

As we slid onto bar stools, entranced by the map of the world circa 1962, with it's blinking lights and bank of international clocks, the pretty blond bartender tossed a cocktail napkin before us and asked, "What can I get you?"

Looking down, I found myself staring into the smoldering dark eyes of a youthful Sean Connery. "Well, I guess I have to have a vodka martini! Shaken, not stirred," I chirped happily. And immediately regretted it. The chirping, I mean, not the martini. Spies do not chirp. Mata Hari did not chirp.

The pretty blond laughed just as heartily as if she'd never heard it before. That's what I love about the people here. Everyone is just so nice.

We wandered around enjoying the vintage memorabilia ~ heavy black phones, telegraph machines, original art and photographs.

"I want my house to look like this," I told my husband.

He eyed the somehow cheerful clutter. "I think it already does," he replied.

I climbed another narrow stairway, passing a couple of other bars on separate landings to find the Ladies' room.

One should never be discovered laughing all alone in the ladies', so it's probably a good thing that I wasn't. Discovered, I mean.

Behind a red door labeled "Mata Hari's changing room" or some such thing, I stepped through to find myself standing on a tiny enclosed balcony. Pressing a button marked '2 way mirror', I had a clear view of all the goings on in the Magic Bar below ~ a marvelous way to keep an eye on the action. Or your date.

Did I mention that I love this place?

Back in the darkened bar, we realized that the black and white televisions in the corner were projecting images from a surveillance camera trained on that enigmatic little foyer. We watched as, time and time again people entered and stood, mystified, until a light went on in the bar, the bartender would press a button and the bookcase would swing open to the surprised delight of the newcomers. A minute later their heads would appear at the top of the stairs, laughing like kids at Disneyland. I could have stayed there all day.

"I want to live here," I said to my husband.

"I know, dear," he replied. He nodded to the smiling barmaid. "I believe we'll have another round."

Thank you, spy who loved me. I believe we will.

Best Spy Pub ever.

*OK, I love it, but seriously ~ how wrong is it that a safe house has a web site? I'm just sayin'.

pub crawl: Milwaukee

I raised the cold glass to my parched lips and drank deeply of the misty auburn fluid. Holding an orange slice aloft, I turned to my husband.

"You see, it's made from wheat and comes with citrus," I instructed him. "So it's not only tasty, it's actually good for you too."

"Wonderful" he said, hoisting his Miller Lite. "But I like my beer to just sit and be beer."

I bent back the peel and bit into the fruit. Mmm. Liquid sunshine.

We were sitting at the bar of a small collegiate pub in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Last year at about this time we were in the Napa Valley touring wineries, nibbling walnut brie and sipping Pinot Noir; today we thought it would be fun to round out our gastronomic education by noshing kielbasa and quaffing some local Hefeweizen; maybe a lager or two. You know, as long as we were in the neighborhood.

Having left home sans maps or guidebook ("It's Milwaukee, for crissakes; not outer Mongolia! How lost can we get?") we blithely drove past the Tourist Information Centers, which are inconveniently located along all major highways at the border of every single state in the union and are marked with flags and everything but neon lights, but which you will miss every time and your husband will not turn around and go back because "there'll be another just down the road," but of course there won't be, and how is a city girl supposed to even know what to look for in the wilds of Wisconsin, anyway...

I'm sorry. Where was I?

Right. Lost.

Driving down the empty streets of a Saturday-deserted downtown, we decided to point the car in the direction of any large brick building we saw in hopes of scoring a brewery. As it turns out, while these had indeed been breweries at one time, in the spirit of the day they had all been converted to luxury condos and office buildings.

Et tu, Milwaukee?

At one point, a couple of cops in a patrol car watched as I executed a complete circle in the middle of a one-way street and didn't even pull me over.

"They probably heard about me forgetting to pack the maps," Turk observed dryly. Well, perhaps I did rather go on about it. But still. I give him one lousy job to do...

We amused ourselves by singing jingles from old beer commercials.

When we say Schlitz

we really mean beer

'Cos when you're out of Schlitz

you're out of beer!

You don't see them writing 'em like that about a dry Riesling, my friend.

Surprisingly enough, all of this made us thirsty. Now we were watching as a hulking young man of about 6'4'' and 220 banged on the bar and swore.

"Barkeep! Beer me!" he roared. Egged on by his buddies, he was trying to drink his way through the establishment's selection of 100-and-something draft beers, three tasting pours at a time. The challenge was taking it's toll. He stood, legs wide apart, hands splayed flatly on the bar for support. One of his mates took a picture; they laughing, he grinning lopsidedly.

A cute couple came in and sat down corner to us. She had spiked hair and a broad smile; he was sunburned and husky. They were from Minnesota, and they'd driven all the way in for the Twins v Brewers game that afternoon. Turns out, they did this all the time.

"We love your stadium!" she enthused to me.

I demurred. "Oh, it isn't really mine," I said modestly. "We're just visiting. From California."

For a moment they looked sad. Then he nodded and said, "The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim."

It was our turn to look sad. And a little ashamed. I hung my head. Turk shook his.

"Arte Moreno," he all but whispered.

Changing the subject, I asked the bartender where we might find a tour.

"There's a good one just around the corner," he said, gesturing. "Just go out here, make a right and follow the lake. You can't miss it." People are always telling us this. And we usually do. Miss it, I mean.

The giant Beer Guy completed his challenge to great public acclaim, and won a tee shirt for his efforts. We waved goodbye to our new friends and headed out just behind him. Although two of his pals were attempting to support him on each side as he wove his way home, his size proved too much for them and he lurched sideways into the wall, laughing. Whoa! they cried, lurching after him. The ballpark was going to be three seats short of a full house for the big game.

Five minutes later, we pulled up to a massive brick edifice, outside of which a long line of people waited to get in. A woman held up a large sign; Tour Sold Out. I asked when the next one started.

"We're closing early today," she replied. "We have a wedding!" She seemed as surprised as I was.

"Wow! That would not have occurred to me," I said in wonderment. I gazed upward. "That must be some brewery." She nodded.

Disappointed, we headed back to town for a late lunch.

We wandered into Buck Bradley's Saloon and Eatery, home of the "longest bar east of the Mississippi".

"Now this is what I call a handsome bar," said Turk, a connoisseur, as he ran his hand lovingly across the polished surface.

We took a seat and ordered. It was there, over a platter of assorted local cheese and sausages that we overheard the bartender telling another couple about a certain 'safe house'.

Interesting, I thought. I leaned in.

postcards from chicago

Come on, baby don't you want to go
Come on, baby don't you want to go
To the same old place
Sweet home, Chicago

I fell in love the first time my husband brought me back to visit this, his hometown. Dining in the Pump Room of the Ambassador East Hotel, they'd made poor Turk don an implausibly over-sized navy blue polyester jacket for the privilege of sitting in storied Booth One, once occupied by the likes of such luminaries as Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart and Cary Grant. Now it was occupied by the likes of us, a chronically under-dressed Turk and his new wife, the camera-toting Kid.


Dreamy eyed and smitten, I gazed at the comically attired man sitting across from me and asked him to buy me the brownstone across the street. Earlier, we'd been strolling along in this quietly upscale neighborhood, past galleries and cafes, bistros and brownstones and had seen one or two of the latter for sale. This should be our home, I told him; this was the place I was meant to be.

He reminded me that he had left this place for a reason, and that reason was the bitter winter cold. I was married to a man, he told me who, for better or for worse no longer owned a coat, nor wished to. I cheerfully informed him that I was completely open to compromise and did not have a problem with his visiting me during the summer, or even perhaps the warmer spring months if that was to be his preference.

I did not get my brownstone.


But I never stopped loving Chicago. I love everything about it. I love the art and the architecture; the food, the drink and the shopping.





I love the look and the rhythm; the sounds and smell of it. I love that everywhere you glance is something to catch and hold the eye. I like that the prevailing sense of civic pride seems unaccompanied by irony or arrogance. I love that all the waiters laugh and tease. I like that when you smile at people here, they smile back. Sometimes for no reason at all.


In fact, to my mind Chicago has everything a big city needs ~ world class art institutions and museums; a booming economy to support great restaurants and retail, and a solid infrastructure with effective mass transit.

All in an arresting package that indicates an appreciation of both it's history and it's future, as embodied in it's preservation of the old amid the construction of the new. With just a touch of oddly Midwestern whimsy thrown in.

Maybe it's just the wind whipping in off of Lake Michigan that blows away the angst and sweeps the air clean, but it seems to me that Chicago has as much to offer as it's big sister to the east, New York, and without the proverbial chip on it's shoulder. And I say this with all the smug confidence of a native New Yorker, born with a proverbial chip on my shoulder. (And which, as a now devout Californian, I'm seeking to have removed by a prominent cosmetic surgeon).
Well, some things never change.



We stayed at the small but gracious Talbott Hotel, which I found on my latest web/travel obsession, Trip Advisor, and cannot recommend it highly enough. I don't believe we'll be staying anywhere else when we're in town ~ unless of course I get that brownstone, which I have never stopped lobbying for, by the way (I think I'm wearing him down). The hotel staff are friendly and welcoming, the ample accommodations more than comfortable. And of course, they have that cow climbing up the side of the building. You don't get that at the Four Seasons.


See what I mean? Whimsy. Perfect.

have bags, will travel

I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move.
~ Robert Louis Stevenson

There's an old saying, something about how it's good to get away, but it's also good to get home again. It has never held any particular resonance for me. Don't get me wrong ~ I love my cozy Cali digs. And there's something to be said for sleeping in your own bed, with it's familiar sheets and sweet scent. Not to mention the very real comfort of knowing just what all those pillows and blankets have been up to lately. And with whom.

But I am always reluctant to unpack after a trip, no matter how long the duration or distant the place. And it's not just because I'm lazy, although that is my husband's theory. I never really want to admit that it's over. That it's time to stop wandering and playing and get back to the workaday world and it's routines and responsibilities. I like the sensation of moving, eyes on the horizon and mind just down the road. The truth is that, despite all efforts to the contrary Mama raised a rolling stone, and there's nowhere that I'd rather be than on my way. To somewhere I've never been before. Or that I've been in the past and remember well. Or remember ill, and have decided to give another chance. Just as long as I'm on my way.

And I can just as easily imagine myself living in Paris as Pasadena, or Venice as Ventura. And then hopping a train to Madrid, or a plane to hit the beach Down Under. Or California. I need not a mansion but a pied-a-terre, a pleasant place to hang my hat and get my mail. And join a gym. Because all that experience is very fattening. Very.

I heard someone say once that travel was for the unimaginative, and there may be some truth in that. It's true that I relish the thrill of the new, and that my limited imagination did not anticipate nor could have done justice to some of the experiences that I've had. I'd still rather do it than dream it. There'll be time enough for dreams. I'm more inclined to take the view expressed by Seneca, that travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.

I ponder that vigor of mind as I wander the house, barefoot and dozy, checking mail and watering plants. I listen to music and fiddle with photos. I watch from a distance as I avoid unpacking by blogging about how I am loathe to unpack. I am home.

sweet home chicago

pearls before swine

MIT called. They want their honorary degree back.

I never said I was the brightest bulb on the tree, and adapting to the new Vista operating system has presented something of a challenge. It isn't it ~ it's me. It looks very attractive and obligingly efficient, and I love the zazzy new 3D graphics and organizational tools. Even my new desktop ~ a soothing eyeful of luscious green bamboo stalks; ooooo, pretty ~ makes me happy.

It's just that I haven't had time to sit down, focus and methodically analyze all the quirks, bells and whistles involved in the new system. Because I wanted to get to work immediately after being offline for so long, I just dove right in without checking first to see if there was any water in the pool. As a result I hit my head, set some things up wrong (for one thing, inputting the wrong PPOE or BYOB or whatever the heck it was that I was asked for during setup) and thus creating all manner of confusion.

And at the moment I have no time to go back and fix my errors. I did go out and buy Windows Vista for Dummies last week but haven't had time to crack it yet ~ turns out what I really needed was Windows Vista for the Busy Idiot. Maybe that's the book I should write. If I have time.

It will all work out in the end, I'm sure. In the meantime, we're off this week to one of my favorite cities and Turk's hometown of Chicago. We're adding a little side tour up through Wisconsin to the Great Lakes area. I have never been to Wisconsin, which seems as good a reason as any to go. I hear there are cows. Possibly a cheese festival. I'd like to stay in one of those converted lighthouse inns I've been seeing online, perched high on a cliff somewhere overlooking Lake Superior. If it's warm enough, maybe we'll do a little sailing; maybe catch us some of that Lake Superior whitefish. Who knows? We'll figure it out. It's a road trip ~ we go where the road takes us.

In the meantime, all we've got so far are nonrefundable plane tickets and a date with some of Turk's old pals downtown. I'll be hanging around the Art Institute, and the evening will almost certainly find us at Harry Caray's. Again. I'll hit the shops along Michigan Avenue; maybe check out Navy Pier too; we haven't been there since it opened. After that, it's anybody's guess. See you when we get back.

Go Sox...

d'oh! a meme...

Immediately after setting up my new computer, so pleased was I with my incredible new technical skills (oh...it's the blue plug in the blue hole...Genius!) that I awarded myself an honorary degree from MIT, turned the thing off (brilliant!) and promptly forgot all about it.

So when Robbie tagged me, along with Donna and Wil for a meme like, a week ago, I sort of didn't know until now. I never do these things because I hate answering questions about myself ~ the results are never very bright or interesting. But I feel I should in this case because Robbie is my friend. Also, I think I owe her ten bucks. Because I usually owe her ten bucks.

A-Available or Single? Very funny. You'll have to ask my husband.

B-Best Friend: I'm with Robbie on this. I don't like ranking anyone, and life is change. My oldest friend is Alexa...and I just realized I missed her birthday. D'oh!

C-Cake or Pie: Cake! I never get to eat cake! I love cake! Any cake! As long as it has icing.

D-Drink of Choice: Is it Happy Hour yet? See blog title.

I also enjoy a lovely glass of wine or two ~ it depends on what kind of animal I'm oppressing at the moment (see below).

E-Essential items: Glasses. Compact. Lipstick. Credit card. Book.

F- Favorite Color(s): The endless shades of green. And many, many reds. I really like lavender too. And yellow. Orange is nice.

G- Gummi Bears or Worms? Yuck.

H- Hometown: I guess I'll always think of the little town on Long Island where I grew up as my hometown. I didn't realize that 'til now. And I'm not telling.

I- Indulgence: See blog title. Also; chocolate, posh hotels and fancy dinners. And things to wear to posh hotels and fancy dinners. Which require accessories. Also, paint. I like nice oils.

J- January or February: June.

K- Kids: no

L- Life is incomplete without: adventure. And friends. Friends who will go on adventures.

M- Marriage Date: June 7

N- Number of Siblings: One little bro.

O- Oranges or Apples? Oranges.

P- Phobias/Fears: My body outliving the quality of my life. And lizards.

Q- Favorite Quote: "Once you have perceived that life is very cruel, the only response is to live with as much humanity, humor and freedom as you can." ~ Sarah Kane

R- Reasons to smile: Because life is short and then you die. Enjoy the ride. Carpe Diem, baby.

S- Season: Autumn

T- Tag Three: I can't. I just can't.

OK. I admit it. I don't know three people. Who like me enough to do a meme.

U- Unknown Fact About Me: I don't know three people who like me. But at least now I have an honorary degree from MIT!

V – Vegetarian or Oppressor of Animals? Oh, an oppressor, absolutely. But only on weekends, and at some very nice restaurants.

W- Worst Habit(s): Avoidance. Overindulgence (see above)

X – X-rays or Ultrasounds? What are you, my doctor?

Honestly, you're not even trying. X could be a million things. Xenophobe or Patriot? Xylophone or Sitar? X-treme sports or X-treme makeover?

Does this thing ever end?

Y- Your Favorite Foods: pasta, fresh crab, scallops, oysters; crisp green salads, tomatoes fresh from the garden, anything prepared Italian style, my mother's bread pudding...you really don't want me to go on.

Z- Zodiac: cancer

Thank you for your patience. And Robbie ~ we're even. ;)

bizarro new world

Oh my god. This is so strange. After backing up some files to CD on my old (I think) virus-infected Dell, I bought a new computer. It's an HP something or other ~ by the time I had listened to the happy parade of fast-talking 22 year-olds with Dell, Best Buy and Fry's I was so addled and glassy-eyed that I just handed my credit card to the last guy I encountered and begged him not to hurt me. Good thing he worked for the store.

Which is all pretty exciting, or should be, except that this new model is running Windows Vista, with which I am unfamiliar. The first thing I did was to accidentally run a file backup program, which completely filled my D disk and immediately triggered messages that I'm low on memory. Wonderful! Right back where I started. I can't tell if I managed to delete it or not. Nothing looks right or functions the same. Where are those happy little geeks when you need them?

I don't even know how my start up screen functions, and I'm afraid to check and see if I'm still compatible with my digital camera or MP3 player. I haven't tried the media programs yet. Although it's really nice to up-and download in seconds rather than minutes. I love my tight little new keyboard too, although I've no idea about some of these hieroglyphics. Is that a hyperlink key...?

Anyway, I just came here to check the blog before I do any further damage. I must say, it is very different from the one I'm accustomed to seeing. The pictures look smaller and the page seems bigger. Everything appears somewhat distorted. My sidebar-self seems to have gotten shorter and a little wider ~ not unlike my actual self, come to think of it. How dare Virtual Me mimic the more unappealing aspects of Reality Me? Most inconvenient. I think I'm getting the vapors.

This is all too much for me. I've been challenging what's left of my brain all day. Time to fly the martini flag here in Luddite Land. I bet there's a key for it somewhere here on the board. I wonder what this pretty crescent moon thing does...

growing older but not up

We are growing old together with something less than grace, my appliances, my husband and I. Although not necessarily in that order.

And while as a rule I like to ignore this sad fact of life, I was forced to confront it yesterday when an abrupt reminder arrived in the form of a cheerfully insulting 'welcome' letter from AARP. It was a harbinger of doom that I chose to take personally.

"What the hell?" I cried, flinging the temporary identification card away from me as if it were on fire. Turk, seated at the kitchen counter opening his own mail gave me a knowing glance as I raved on. "I am not old enough for AARP! Why would they think I am? Who are these people and why are they saying such terrible things about me?"

"You think that's bad?" he asked, eyeing a pretty cream-colored piece of stationary in front of him. "This is from the Trident Society. They want to incinerate me."

"I don't think they want to incinerate you. I think they want to bury you at sea."

"I don't see that that's any improvement. And it's definitely incinerate. But that's not the point. The point is, why are they in such a hurry to bury me in the first place? Where do they get these lists? My accountant? My doctor? What do they know that I don't know?" He paused. "I'm not dead yet."

"No, honey. Indeed you're not! And I'm not old yet."

And thus it was unanimous. We remain, as always, untouched by time or mortality. We smile, happy in our shared delusion.

Meanwhile, in another room the family Dell is dealing with it's own issues. Running slower and slower of late, it's been creaking and groaning loudly enough to hear the little hamsters that power it chugging along in their rusty cages. Being online is becoming a painful experience, and I'm afraid an intervention may be in order. Pages load like lava flows when they load at all, after which they disappear in a slow fade from top to bottom. Error messages abound, and Windows sends up ominous flares warning that I am dangerously low on virtual memory. If it only knew.

So I am in the process of uninstalling obsolete programs (at least I hope they're obsolete and not, you know, essential...) and deleting ancient files. I am not sure how much good it will do. What I would really like to do, while I'm at it, is to purge all AOL programs from the system, but I'm afraid that doing so would also remove my control over the old AOL blog, which I should but can't bring myself to delete. (I know. I'm just sentimental that way.) But if anyone has any information regarding the issue, I'd love to hear it.

In the meantime, it looks like it may be off to Rehab for my poor geriatric Dell 4500S, which takes me out of the blogging game for a bit. But that's the trouble with interventions; they're always hardest on the family.

the answer

"Listen: We are here on Earth to fart around. Don't let anybody tell you any different"
~ Kurt Vonnegut

Farewell to a profoundly generous and heroically empathetic man. He was funny, sad, brilliant, sensitive, accessible, lonely and complicated ~ qualities that add up, in the course of a lifetime, to represent the depth of human wisdom.

And somehow, thinking about it now I suddenly realize that I have no desire to waste this glorious bright gift of a day sitting here in front of the dead white light of my computer screen, reading the tributes of others and growing old in my chair.

"The main business of humanity is to do a good job of being human beings, not to serve as appendages to machines, institutions, and systems." ~~ 'Player Piano,' 1952

The answers are, and always have been to my mind, fairly straight forward. To thine own self be true. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Do a good job of being a human being. Damn it.

So ponder the mysteries of the universe if you will. I, my friend, am off to do some serious farting around.

(* pearls before swine)

And so it goes.

art that makes you giggle

Nikas Safronov is a genius. Creating an entirely new genre of art ~ let's call it celebrity historical kitsch ~ the Russian artist has made a name for himself with a form of portraiture guaranteed to appeal to the vanity and imagination of high profile egoists everywhere. And me. It appeals to me. I adore this painting. It makes me laugh. And really, isn't that what we ask of all great art? That it make me laugh?

Of course it is.

As detailed in today's issue of the La Times, (click on 'photo gallery' for more) Safronov re-imagines movie stars, politicians, tycoons and their wives as historical dukes, earls, popes and emperors with a lively brush and (one must assume) even livelier humor. George Clooney grins, impossibly sexy, as an elaborately tressed dauphin while Madonna, consistently self-satisfied, appears as a linen-draped virgin.

Naturally, there are detractors.

"There are dozens of gifted and talented artists in modern Russia, but Nikas Safronov is certainly not one of them," fumes Marat Gelman, a Moscow art critic and gallery owner quoted in the Times article.

Well, sure. But how many gifted and talented artists are this laugh out loud funny? Or would think to paint themselves as Renaissance lords or Franciscan monks?


The practice is not without precedence; Rembrandt made use of historical costumes and props for himself and his sitters back in the 17th century. But it was the 17th century. And he was, you know, Rembrandt.


More importantly, Safronov will happily paint you and me as Renaissance lords or Franciscan monks. And I am here to tell you, we need this.

I think I might like a portrait of myself envisioned as Madame de Recamier, or perhaps Artemisia Gentileschi. Maybe I would like to appear as an elaborately-coiffed courtesan of the medieval period, or a pearl-draped Queen Elizabeth I. Or a wench. A nun might be fun. Or even Catherine de Medici. I'm not sure. Clearly, I need to give this some thought.

And so should you. I firmly believe that everyone should have one of these hanging over their fireplace. It would serve to keep us humble ~ imagine taking your latest rant against foie gras or the evils of excessive corkage fees too seriously under a dramatic image of You as the Emperor Napoleon ~ and certainly your dinner parties will never want for conversation again as your guests feast their eyes upon your own personal version of this:


So go ahead and ask yourself; who would I want to be? George and I dare you.

balance

I went to yoga this morning for the first time in a couple of weeks and found myself literally coming face to face with the fruits of my own sloth.

As I hung there in Downward Facing Dog, quietly contemplating my Suddenly Swinging Belly and groaning my way through a Decidedly Defeated Warrior (to paraphrase Donald Rumsfeld, you go to war with the body you have, not the body you want) I was struck by how much I had let myself slide, and how little time it had taken to do so.

We were entertaining again this weekend ~ the house was already clean and really, how often can that be expected to happen? ~ and again the larder was full of Fabulous Forbidden Foods (herbed goat cheese...foccacia bread...tagliatelle alla Bolognese... CAKE! I never get to eat CAKE!) while I was full of...well, let's just say I was full of excuses not to cut back, work out or basically discipline myself in any way.

As can be expected, I am now sporting one magnificent Muffin Top which, though it sounds like a yummy yoga pose (yay!) is actually that soft tubular roll that billows inelegantly over low-riding jeans (booo!)

We had a new instructor today; one with whom I was not familiar but apparently everybody else was. She is a tiny Korean woman ~ no more than 5 feet tall and 80 pounds if that ~ with the body of a dancer and the manner of a marine drill sergeant. No soft-spoken hippie-child she, with the caressing tones and gentle exhortations to "listen to your body," and "just do what feels best for you today..." that I have become accustomed to and seduced by.

No. When this little Yoga Sarge yells, "Plant your feet!" you plant your feet; when she bellows "Dig deeper!" you start to burrow down and when, to the sweet background flutter of flutes and Hare Krishnas she barks, "Lift higher!" well, you damn well lift till you break something.

She, meanwhile, is twisting and contorting her own body with all the strength and agility of a Chinese acrobat. If a glittering trapeze had dropped out of the ceiling and she started to fly, I would not have been in the least surprised. As she moved with effortless grace into a standing split, her body one elegant vertical line, head tucked behind her ankle and feigning confidence that we would follow her example, I was heard to gasp out loud. And not just because I was trying to, you know, stand upright.

Later, when Zen Master Zena asked if we could feel the stretch during some sort of twisted, CIA-invented, one-armed, sideways, leg-up-in-the-air-plank/torture and we all cried out in pain, she giggled.

I love this girl.

She's only teaching the Monday class for two more weeks. If I can keep the chips out of the pantry and the cake out of my face, I may be able to get myself back into some sort of shape. And maybe my inner warrior won't feel as defeated as my outer warrior looks.

Just in time to go on vacation. Namaste.

I've got a right to sing the blues

The Irish Blues
by Pat Donohue

Well I woke up this morning
I got outta bed
my face was all ruddy
my hair was all red
And my eyes were all swollen
I thought I was dead
I woke up today with the Irish Blues

I haven't been around for a couple of weeks because the hubs and I have been busy cleaning, polishing, painting, shopping and even doing a little remodeling in honor of our turn to host the annual St Patrick's party for Turk's merry band of golf buds and their wives.

I try to be good
but faith and begorha
I go to bed laughin'
and wake up with sorrow
and what do you bet
it's the same thing tomorow
I tell you my friend
it's the Irish Blues...

I'm happy to say it went really well. At least everyone seemed to be having a blast. A party's only as good as the friends who gather, and you couldn't ask for a lovelier, livelier group of people.

Well now I'm a grown man
And just like my daddy
I like to go out on the feast of St Paddy
And take on the ways of a much younger laddy
And wake the next day
with the Irish Blues...

You know a party was a success when you wake up to find the food gone, the bottles empty, the silver in the sink and a football in the fireplace.

Well last night
the Guinness was flowing
and last night
we really got going
with singin' and dancin' I couldn't refuse
I woke up today with the Irish Blues

I spent yesterday enjoying the memory of the evening before, still vaguely high and in partial recovery with NPR, where I heard this wonderful bluesy little number on Garrison Keillor's A Prairie Home Companion. I'm committing it to memory and singing it next year. The gang says we're hosting again. We've decided to take it as a compliment.

Yes and last night
the Guinness was flowing
and last night we really got going
with singin' and dancin' I couldn't refuse
I woke up today with the Irish Blues

Sing along here...
(Fast forward past the greetings, about 3 minutes or so in.)

change

On television, my other, better reality, everybody is talking to dead people. Patricia Arquette can't get a decent night's sleep what for all the dudes and damsels in distress banging around her dreams on Medium. Then she has to figure out how to prevent/solve/explain how she knew about the mayhem in the first place. How the woman gets to sleep at all is the biggest mystery. You'd have to knock me out with a mallet.

Meanwhile, over on Ghost Whisperer, spirits are constantly dropping in on poor Jennifer Love Hewitt, causing her false eyelashes to flutter and bosom to heave as she smiles beatifically and sends them on into the light. Or the tunnel. Or Better Place; wherever the hell it is they're meant to go.

And on my absolute drop-dead favorite 'I see dead people' show, Six Feet Under, the Fisher Family gets to hang with the dearly departed at their clients' very own funerals (cool!) and are occasionally comforted in their you-can-imagine-quite considerable angst by their deceased father, who smokes and jokes and is even able to give them the occasional hug. Now really, is that too much to ask?

One of the wonders of New York are the glories of it's mass transit system, and I will hear nothing to the contrary. On my last day in Manhattan I took the subway to Grand Central and picked up the 1:15 on the LIRR out to Pinelawn Station, which is located right next to the memorial park where my parents are buried.

It was off-peak hours, and I had the car nearly to myself for the hours' ride out to the station. I hiked across the windswept grounds in bitter cold, but the sun was brilliant in a clear, cobalt sky. Pinelawn Memorial Park is a lovely and well-maintained place, peaceful in it's way, and serene. I had an hour to stay, but if I missed the next and last train back to the city, I'd find myself stranded overnight. It wouldn't have been the first time.

After Dad died, Mom and I came to visit here whenever I was in town. I know it brought her comfort. The last time we came together we arrived quite late, after 4:00 pm, because she was always fussing around so much that attempts to get her out of the house before 3:00 were futile. It was cold then too, and dark, and we didn't attempt to leave the grounds until after 5:00. When I drove up to the gates and realized they were locked I did what any sensible person would do. I started shouting.

"Oh my god, Mom! We're locked in the cemetery!"

At first startled, Mom started giggling. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed. And she laughed again. In fact, she was practically rolling.

"Mom, it's not funny! We're going to wind up spending the night in a car in a cemetery! Oh, my god, what am I going to do?" I wailed, driving around frantically until finally finding a caretaker to unlock the gates. Late and lost; me panicking, Mom giggling; this is the story of our lives.

This is the story I wanted to go on. I wanted to laugh with her about it all over again; tell Dad and feel him smile. I stood there over the bronze plaque with her name newly embossed in gold next to his: Ruth 1913-2006. It is brutal in it's finality. I don't know how I could have thought this would make me feel better.

I have not been dealing particularly well with my mother's death, and I thought that a visit to the cemetery would help. There, I thought, I would meditate and find peace. I was going to write that I didn't know what I was looking for, but that's not true. I know what I was looking for; it's just that it isn't quite sane.

I was looking for her. I was looking for a reprieve. I was looking for another chance. I wanted the last year of her life back so I could make it better. I wanted a chat, like Nate and Dave Fisher get on TV. I wanted a do-over.

Of course, what I found was not what I wanted. She is not with me as I sit on the stone bench overlooking her grave, gazing at the white birch that was planted because, she said, it was my father's favorite. She isn't there. He isn't there. They aren't anywhere. The story of their lives has ended; the story of our lives together. And that is what I can't seem to wrap my heart around.

What I know is what I've always known. All life is change. To accept love is to accept loss; to accept loss is to accept pain. To know the one is to embrace the other, and I've spent my life trying to avoid the unavoidable. I need to stop yearning for things that cannot be. I need to accept. I miss them. But I have to understand. This is the end of our story.