Monthly Archives: October 2011

October 25, 2011 · 8:28 am

Wrap song

Here in the Eastern United States, October’s final week welcomes the brilliant colors of hardwood trees, the seasonal bloom of bushy chrysanthemums and the annual return of my favorite cold-weather symbol.

From the soft underbelly of the Himalayan yak to the vulnerable neck of the female human, comes one of the world’s most beautiful and utile inventions—the Pashmina.

The Pashminas were out in their vibrant glory this past weekend, as they should be.

I have several fringed rectangular scarves, though only three qualify as authentic Pashmina. But whether woven of this particular Asian cashmere or its synthetic sister, I’ll wear and enjoy each one throughout the season and, if I’m lucky, maybe even acquire a missing color.

Indulge me, if you would, in an ode:

You, oversized scarf, keep me toasty when you’re folded, twisted, swirled.
You protect me from the breezes, as a blanket, when unfurled.
O, Pashmina, dear woolen protector, without you how could I live?
Let us share our ritual of sorting you by color, à la Roy G. Biv.

Ladies and gentlemen, feel free to add your own verse or salute your favorite article of autumnal attire.

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October 21, 2011 · 7:50 am

Well connected

This was my first full week at home in a while. In the last month or so, I’ve spent 15 days in airports, some 20 airports in all, counting connections. You might say I’ve been going at terminal velocity.

Or you might say I’ve been on an extended hub crawl. (Okay, I stole that pun from a recent issue of the US Airways in-flight magazine; being that they graciously plugged my blog last year, I owe them attribution.)

This last wave didn’t yield epic tales, as previous trips almost always have. Thankfully, this time I’m left with just a few bits of footage, which remain stored in my mental DVR:

  • There was a medical emergency mid-flight. The crew called for a doctor to tend to an ailing passenger. The woman beside me—who had noticed the clinical trial data I was reviewing in preparation for moderating a medical program—tried  to volunteer me. “Aren’t you a doctor? Can’t you do something?” I wanted to tell her that if a doctor emerged, I’d be happy to introduce him, but that’s all I was qualified to do. Instead, I said nothing.
  • Before an early flight, I watched as a woman poured Starbucks coffee into a child’s sippy cup. I was horrified, but didn’t say anything.
  • One morning I stopped for breakfast at an airport restaurant called Real Food. I ordered a pancake and bacon. When I went to cut into the pancake with a knife and fork, it was so hard that it snapped my fork in two. I couldn’t even get my teeth through the bacon. I was tempted to accuse the manager of serving Pretend Food but instead I threw my breakfast Frisbee in the trash without saying a word.
  • At what I assume was a pet-friendly hotel, I watched a dog drop his business in a carpeted corridor and walk away nonchalantly with its owner. Not a peep out of me.

No, I’m just a frequent flyer who sits quietly in the gate area listening to the Bluetoothed blowhard (there’s one at every gate) loudly putting together the big corporate deal. And I shake my head at the Smartphone Sallies who fight over the last available outlet, scrounging for electricity as if it were crack cocaine.

My personal addiction? Airport jewelry kiosks. This credit card bill’s going to be a doozy. I already know these impulse buys are irresponsible, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything.

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October 20, 2011 · 8:43 am

Women’s lib

This goes out to the ladies out there.

Fire up your Kindle, visit the library, dash over to Barnes & Noble, however you hook your ladyself up to a good read, and get The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted And Other Small Acts of Liberation, a collection of short stories by Elizabeth Berg.

You might know Elizabeth Berg. She’s written more than 20 books. Some years ago, my mother gave me a copy of What We Keep. I started reading it to a hospice patient and loved it. Well, I loved the first few chapters anyway. My patient passed before we finished and I’ve had trouble picking it back up.

While I was browsing in a bookstore with my sister-in-law this summer, The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted called to me from the shelf.

It’s not a diet book or a self-help book or even a poor-me chick book. It’s a rich collection of hilarious short stories, each funnier and more touching than the last. Not every chapter has to do with food, but Berg’s characters do a lot of living—for better or worse—at life’s table.

One chapter is simply a letter from a woman to her granddaughter, instructing the girl on “How to Make an Apple Pie.” The chapter is 12 pages long–and one of the most entertaining recipes I’ve ever read.

So what’s with the book title? Each chapter includes, implicitly or explicitly, one small act of liberation. You don’t always see it coming but, before you turn to the next chapter, a well whaddaya know, along with a sweet bite of inspiration, will pop. There’s even a section in the back for book club discussions.

Do pick up a copy. I promise you’ll find it delicious. And, if not, you’ll have yourself one peach of an apple pie recipe.

Gentlemen, join in the fun. You might even get a chuckle or two. Or rack up a few sensitivity points with your sweetie.

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October 18, 2011 · 9:06 am

Fortitude foretold

Man Versus Machine has been a recurring motif over the course of this blog. It seems I’m destined to face the techno-beast again and again.

I’m not technologically adept. But I’m nothing if not persistent. Dogged. Relentless.

For 20 years I was coddled by onsite tech support. Most of that time, all I had to do was punch in four digits and someone appeared in my office, tapping away until life was good again. In the late 90s, corporate resources became constrained and Y2K gave way to the tech support principle known as RTFM.

One of the things I miss about working in a conventional job is onsite tech support. The last 10 years I’ve had to fend for myself. I’m not sure I’ve acquired much skill but, out of necessity, I’ve become a bulldog. When some gizmo goes kaflooey, I hammer it until it succumbs (a popular tech support principle of the self employed).

In the past three weeks, I’ve suffered the dysfunction of three computers, endured an ISP conversion gone horribly wrong, lost my business phone line, gazed as my Garmin gave up the ghost and watched my four-in-one crumble into nothing. I was afraid to make toast.

Yesterday I awoke at 4:00 a.m., in a puddle of hot and cold sweat, palpitating with anxiety and set on getting at least one or two of these things straightened out.

At 11:45 last night, I realized I was still in my pajamas, I hadn’t eaten, but I proudly had wiped out a few gremlins. I decided to take a break and read the paper, which had been sitting on the kitchen table all day.

I flipped to the horoscope. Don’t you love reading your horoscope when the day is already done? I find it’s much less foreboding that way, and too late to act on flimsy advice.

Mine read: “It is sometimes hard to let things go. Then again, being just a tad obsessive does have its benefits. For instance, you can focus intently on something you want to accomplish and not quit until it’s done.”

I’m not quite done. But today’s another day. Do I dare peek at what the stars portend?

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October 4, 2011 · 9:11 am

Finale favorites

It was bound to happen. Yesterday’s reference to choosing one’s own funeral music has led to lengthier discussions.

I was comforted to discover I’m not the only healthy person to put a little thought into this. I view my funeral as one last opportunity to amuse my friends and still end the conversation with the last word.

My father said long ago that when he goes, he wants “Abide With Me” played on a bad cello with canaries singing in the  background. One last joke.

My mother—in comments to yesterday’s post—shared her funeral program plans du jour, which include both a Requiem and a Bruce Springsteen ballad.

In a chat with friends yesterday, one said she had her whole service planned. Another said she’d leave the details to her mourners, while preferring to focus on the wake.

Recently, while giving you my impressions of the final scene of Les Misérables, I shared that I’d be adding “Finale” to my funeral program. “Finale” isn’t just the reference to the musical’s closing number, but (spoiler alert) a commentary on the death experience.

I’ll say, I do have a few hymns picked out. Some come and go, but two definites remain, “I Want to Walk as a Child of the Light” and “There’s Wideness in God’s Mercy,” but I don’t want the traditional version of the latter. The one I want is a different melody altogether. For the record, it’s #469 in the Episcopal Hymnal, not the more popular #470. Are we clear on that?

I’d like to avoid what happened at my mother-in-law’s funeral. As she was near the end of her life, she requested specifically that “How Great Thou Art” not be played. She hated that hymn. Guess what the organist played as the final hymn of the service? Personally, I love “How Great Thou Art.” A little overdone on the funeral circuit, but moving nonetheless.

Don’t hate me, but I’m not a fan of “Amazing Grace,” so let’s skip that one and leave more time to get to the potato salad.

Now, on to the after party. Some of the popular music I’ve chosen includes The Beatles’ “Let it Be,” Jackson Browne’s “Rock Me on the Water,” Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” Natalie Cole’s “This Will Be (An Everlasting Love)” and now, “Finale” from Les Miz. There are many others that come and go from the hopper.

We make these selections as if we have any control but truly, we are at the mercy of our loved ones, who may have a different agenda.

I remember a time when my son, who was seven or eight at the time, was really angry at me. He searched for the most hurtful thing he could think of to say, which was: “When you die, I’m gonna get up and sing ‘Go Go Power Rangers’ at your funeral!”

It still makes me laugh to imagine him as a middle-aged man in a suit and tie, standing at the church lectern and singing this thumping cartoon theme song to his mother. He will, after all, have the final say.

Your turn. What’s in your final playlist? Anyone have “Dust in the Wind?” “Last Train to Clarksville?”

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October 3, 2011 · 9:49 am

Divine misery

It was a fitting backdrop.

Gloomy skies. Hovering gray clouds. Damp, chilly air. Persistent rain, following a month of persistent rain. Profound fatigue. Even a sinus headache. Miserable. Just miserable.

And perfect. Perfect for going to see Les Misérables.

I had given the tickets to my husband for Father’s Day.

We had never seen the show. It was coming to The Kennedy Center on its umpteenth tour, so I thought it was time to see what the 25-year-plus sensation was all about.

I hope it’s safe to divulge that I knew next to nothing about the play. Granted, it’s said to be the longest-running musical in the world, the third longest-running show in Broadway history, based on one of the most notable novels of the 19th century. I should have done my homework but, because the weekend sneaked up on me, I didn’t read up as I normally do before seeing a show.

A friend was kind enough to give me a synopsis over lunch on Friday—between bites and meeting agenda items. Otherwise, I might have surmised that Victor Hugo penned an entire story around a Susan Boyle hit.

After an insufficient night’s sleep, a long morning at church and a big lunch, the first act of yesterday’s matinee was an exercise in foggy frustration, as I struggled to piece together, ce qui au nom de Dieu, was happening on stage. The novel—1900 pages in French, 1400 in English—is composed of 365 chapters, so I cut myself un petit peu de slaque.

I found that the music itself created a story through sheer emotion, even without the lyrics; in fact, my husband and I agreed it was the best score of any Broadway production we’d seen. Otherwise, we’d have been tempted to walk out at Intermission for as well as we could follow the plot.

But we hung in. Between acts, we re-read the program synopsis and hoped for the best. Besides, we had great seats.

The curtain rose on the second act and all became sharply clear. My headache even went away. The social and spiritual themes came  to light—grace, forgiveness, sacrifice, redemption, love. I cried as the finale was sung, first by Jean Valjean and then by the ensemble. I put on the CD last night and played the song several more times.

I might need to see Les Miz again. In the meantime, I now have one more selection to add to my funeral playlist: “Finale,” and isn’t that fitting as well?

Subject for another day: Do you have your funeral music picked out?

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