October 29, 2010 · 8:12 am

Bah! Humbug!

Alas, Halloween weekend is upon us. At the risk of solidifying your impression of me as a grouch, I must confess this is not my favorite holiday. I did endure in good humor a week of Halloween episodes of my favorite TV shows, but am relieved to have that over with.

Those who know me well know there aren’t many holidays I do like, mostly because of their power to impose unrealistic demands on us. But, as the next two months unfold, you will learn this about me soon enough.

So, what’s my beef with Halloween? I’ll hit the couch and tell you that much of it goes back to childhood. For some reason, I frequently got sick on Halloween night. Not from too much candy; I didn’t even make it out the door for trick-or-treating. Whether I spiked a high fever or spouted a projectile nosebleed right there in my Mary Poppins costume, something tended to strike me.

When I was seven, we moved to Cleveland on Halloween day, so I would have missed trick-or-treating altogether. I was heart-broken. My parents suggested I go out the night before to score some candy. So out I went, on October 30th, without my friends, in my Japanese kimono, ringing doorbells around the neighborhood. What did I find? That most people didn’t buy candy until Halloween day, so I caught many neighbors off guard. But don’t worry, I got over that and I trust they did too.

In those days, kids were cut off from trick-or-treating around age 12, which I think is an appropriate age. Nowadays, trick-or-treaters come in all ages, many without costumes, and this bugs me.

Believe it or not, up to 500 trick-or-treaters come to our door every Halloween. They begin before dinner and ring the doorbell well past 10 p.m. There’s a large Halloween attraction on the street behind our house, which draws people from all over. So, after enjoying the haunted houses, pirate ships and mazes, kids, teens and adults go around the block to trick-or-treat. What the news stories always capture is the cheery neighborliness of this gathering. So how can we not open our door enthusiastically?

Perhaps the most difficult part of Halloween is new to me this year. This is the year I had to give up chocolate.

So, if you happen to be at “Scary Perry” on Sunday night, stop by. I’ll be the one shot-gunning Pixy Stix.

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October 28, 2010 · 8:28 am

Empty phrases

Last spring, I wrote a couple of blog posts on useless words. One was on phrases that mean nothing in which I referenced a list of 10 Annoying Phrases That Serve No Purpose. The other was on verbal pauses, you know, words like, “you know” and “like.” Based on comments I received, I learned that some people have emotional or habitual attachments to certain phrases or verbal patterns and don’t share my opinion that, while some expressions may be clever upon their arrival on the language scene, it eventually becomes time to move on from them.

At the risk stepping out on another flimsy limb, I’d like to add two more to the list.

The first happens to occupy second place on the list of 10 Annoying Phrases That Serve No Purpose: “at the end of the day.”

I first took notice of “at the end of the day” in 1991. I was working with a Harvard-educated consultant who used it in just the perfect context:  when all is said and done, when everything else has been taken into consideration. I noted how descriptive—and original—it sounded. I may have even picked it up and used it a few times. Not too long after that, I heard about an industry executive from the Gulf Coast region who, when testifying on Capitol Hill, used the phrase to sum up his testimony. He had the creativity to follow it up with something even more descriptive:  “At the end of the day, when the gumbo boils down . . .”

Almost 20 years later, I believe “at the end of the day” has become stale and overused. It has lost its punch. Unless, of course, it is followed by a clever colloquialism.

The second phrase, while innocuous enough, has come to be spoken without thought. Still, it precedes a great preponderance of sentences these days. “You know what?” Pay attention and you will really begin to notice. Again, there’s technically nothing wrong with it, but it is way overused. “You know what? I am going to have eggs over easy.”

These two sayings hit me in the face yesterday morning as I watched former JetBlue flight attendant Steven Slater being interviewed on the major morning news programs—NBC’s Today, ABC’s Good Morning America and CBS’ The Early Show. 

As a refresher, Slater was the airline employee who had a colossal meltdown on a flight from Pittsburgh to New York, cursed out a plane full of passengers over the intercom and, when the plane landed at JFK, grabbed two beers, popped open the emergency exit door and slid down the escape ramp. He parted ways with JetBlue and pled guilty to two criminal charges.

In three network interviews, he told his side of the story, using “at the end of the day” and “you know what?” collectively at least 10 times. My favorite, though, was on GMA, when he was asked how his notoriety has affected him. He said, “At the end of the day, I still put my pants on one leg at a time.”

Don’t people usually take their pants off at the end of the day? Maybe he was referring to his PJs, in which he probably spends a lot of time these days.

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October 27, 2010 · 8:18 am

Beg your pardon?

If you are looking for cheap amusement, plant yourself in the waiting room of any veterinary office and eavesdrop.

Of course, one person’s amusement is another one’s pet crisis, so it isn’t my intention to be insensitive.

Last Saturday afternoon, as my husband and I were waiting for our twin tuxedo cats to be seen for their annual physicals, we couldn’t help but overhear the receptionist’s conversations.

“So you say Lila needs more Prozac?”

“What kind of breathing problems is Little Bit having?” Let’s just leave it that Little Bit was neither a cat nor a dog.

I suppose I giggled too soon. The next thing I know we were being told, “Lucy is obese. She needs to go on a low carbohydrate diet so she doesn’t develop diabetes.” I guess that’s better than last year’s words from the vet,” Lucy needs dental surgery.” Perhaps if we hadn’t fixed her teeth she wouldn’t have tipped the scale at almost 17 pounds, blessherheart.

After we got instructions for getting Lucy off the Fancy Feast, the veterinary tech consoled us with heaping helpings of Halloween candy and sent us on our way. That is, after we forked over more money than at my last doctor visit. Of course, conversations at the human doctor aren’t as fun to overhear.

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October 26, 2010 · 8:27 am

Pandora’s gift box

According to Greek mythology, Pandora was the first woman. By some accounts, Pandora is “she who sends up gifts.”

We all know about Pandora’s box which, after some reading, I learned was actually a jar. No matter; it’s ancient mythology. But I’ve discovered a modern-day Pandora who also sends up some mighty nice gifts.

You may already know her. As a slow-to-moderate adopter of modern technology, it took me a while to get around to putting Pandora on my iPhone, but what a gift she has been. How she works just boggles my mind.

For those who aren’t familiar, Pandora Radio is an Internet music service associated with something called the Music Genome Project. Now I don’t know a lot about music and even less about genetics.

All I know is that Pandora knows what music I like or dislike and why. And it’s free.

This first got my attention when a friend described Pandora as her soul mate, which I interpreted as someone who knew her better and at a deeper, perhaps more cosmic, level than anyone. I was intrigued.

Pandora gets to know me by playing a song and asking me for a thumbs-up or thumbs-down. Each of my thumb votes increases Pandora’s understanding of me and my musical tastes, but at a level even I may not know.

Naturally, this understanding is based on mathematical algorithms. It’s all mathematical algorithms these days.

I like to think that, like the Human Genome, the Music Genome has a human element; thus, its genetic approach. As soon as I give a song a thumbs-up or thumbs-down, Pandora considers more than 400 different musical attributes to select the next song. These 400 attributes are combined into some 2,000 traits, including rhythm syncopation, key tonality, vocal harmonies and instrumental proficiency.

I’ve barely unwrapped Pandora’s box, having had her for only 48 hours. She hasn’t yet achieved soul mate status after such a short time, but I have faith we’ll bond. She and her Acoustic Blues selections got me through a particularly grueling time Sunday evening. This is promising.

I had hoped my husband would share my enthusiasm. Last night, as I was reading more about the application online, he walked by my office. I shouted, “Hey, did you know we can stream Pandora through the Blu-ray?” 

He just looked at me as if I had asked, “ξέρατε ότι μπορούμε να ρεύσουμε Pandora μέσω της blu-ακτίνας μας?”

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October 25, 2010 · 8:00 am

Slamming into Monday

Greetings from beside the imaginary water cooler. Or, if you’re under 50, the coffee pod brewer (I wish! As you know, I gave up coffee, 46 days ago, to be exact).

I work from home, and one of many things I miss about working in an office is gathering in the break room and hearing about everyone’s weekend.

In offices everywhere, Monday begins with, “What did you do this weekend?”

I sit here amazed at what I fit into mine and there’s no one here to share it with.

Between Friday and Sunday, I took a train home from a business meeting, ran errands, attended a photography exhibit downtown, served on our church’s altar guild (preparing altar candles, linens, silver and brass, both Saturday and Sunday), took two cats to the vet, went to a dinner party, went to church, did some work for hospice, worked the Sunday crossword puzzle, did several loads of laundry and prepped for a colonoscopy. (Hey, if Katie Couric can show it, I can say it.)

Bottom line: I slid into Monday in a daze. And now I am off again to, well, you know.

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October 23, 2010 · 8:34 am

Poor girl’s pâté

I am stuck in town this weekend, which means, once again, I will be missing the annual Shelby, North Carolina, Fall Festival and Livermush Expo. Another year I won’t be crowned Livermush Queen.

Livermush is indigenous to the South and specifically to Western North Carolina. Lest you assume it is the same as scrapple, allow me to point out the distinctions. Both are composed of pig liver, head parts and cornmeal, commonly seasoned with pepper and sage and fried with grease in a skillet until crisp. By definition, livermush must contain liver; scrapple may but doesn’t have to. Scrapple originated in Pennsylvania.

The first time I tasted scrapple was on a camping trip with my aunt and uncle. Oh, how I loved that first crunch, then the  mush.  Mmmm-mm.

My husband was born and reared in Shelby. I was interested to learn of the first Fall Festival and Livermush Expo in 1987. I think they crowned a Livermush Queen in those days, but that rite now appears absent from the Expo. I remember telling my in-laws how cool I thought it was that Shelby had a livermush festival, noting that I was a big fan of the stuff. My mother-in-law was horrified. Apparently not everyone in Shelby enjoys livermush. I believe she said only “those of poor breeding” have a taste for such things. I further embarrassed myself—and her—when I ordered it at breakfast once. I feel bad about that.

My husband’s parents have since passed away. We rarely visit Shelby but for the occasional funeral or Shelby High reunion. But before I die, I hope to attend this momentous event. I’d visit all the exhibits, taste one of Mack’s famous livermush sandwiches, sample the delicacy on a stick, maybe sip some sweet tea.

Yep, that’s another one for the bucket list. I suspect I’ll be going alone.

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October 22, 2010 · 7:32 am

Feelin’ groovy

A few weeks ago, on my way to brunch with friends in Georgetown, while walking along historic and charming M Street, I had a childhood flashback.

The year was 1969 and Georgetown was where it was at. We lived about 15 miles outside the city. One Saturday, my mother took me in to Georgetown to go to what she called the “psychedelic shops.”

Regardless of what psychedelic meant in 1969, I imagine Mom wanted us to see things that Annandale, Virginia’s Mademoiselle dress shop or G.C. Murphy didn’t carry. I assume she wanted to see bright colors, wild patterns in shocking pink and lime green, big hoop earrings and bead necklaces. After all, she was only 34.

I don’t remember everything we saw, but I do remember buying a diary with a brightly colored, flashy-designed vinyl cover.

There was an energy in the streets and storefont windows that we didn’t get in the suburbs. That day might have been what later inspired me to apply to Georgetown University, as if I had a prayer of being admitted.

It might have also jump-started my fondness for flashy bright colors and big dangly earrings.

Yesterday, a friend commented to me about the traits we get from our mothers.

Today, I’d like to say: Thanks, Mom, for that day in Georgetown, for passing on the shopping gene, and for my taste in groovy clothes. And of course, values and all that.  Happy 75th Birthday!

Peace and love.

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October 21, 2010 · 6:48 am

Anger management

As I was ranting yesterday about the careless Cadillac driver who hit my car and then lied about it, I realized I used a phrase that I didn’t fully understand.

I said that something stuck in my craw. I made a mental note to investigate the origin of the phrase and then never got back to it. I was so steaming mad at myself for being so steaming mad.

I don’t want to be an angry blogger. So I packaged up all the anger I’ve expressed on this blog and filed it under a new Category called “Rants and Raves.” This way, maybe my toxic tantrums can stay tucked tightly away where they can’t infect the other posts.

Eventually I looked up “stick in one’s craw” and confirmed that it meant what I thought: to cause one to feel abiding discontent and resentment.

One source said the phrase comes from something you can’t swallow, based on the literal meaning of craw, which refers to the throat of a bird.

Another source claims “sticks in my craw” is incorrect. She said, “The correct phrase is ‘sticks in my crow.’ ‘Craw’ is a modern corruption of the word ‘crow,’ as in the frequent use of ‘craw’ as verb to describe the sound of crows.” She cited the Oxford English Dictionary.

A blog called Phrase Finder also likened the phrase to having difficulty swallowing something, but elaborated. Citing the Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins by Robert Hendrickson, the site explained that “The craw is the crop or preliminary stomach of a fowl, where food is predigested. Hunters centuries ago noticed that some birds swallowed bits of stone that were too large to pass through the craw and into the digestive tract. These stones, unlike the sand and pebbles needed by birds to help grind food in the pouch, literally stuck in the craw, couldn’t go down any farther. This oddity became part of the language of hunters and the phrase was soon used figuratively.” 

So many blogs, so many perspectives on one issue.

Then of course, the Urban Dictionary contained an entry or two that aren’t suitable for polite company.

I got to thinking of other sayings that express anger. For example, “This really steams my clams.” “That really burns my biscuits.” “This really grinds my gears.”

Do you have any good ones? Once I rant a good litany, we can move on. I can move on.

Tomorrow I’ll clear my craw and be so cheerful you won’t even recognize me.

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October 20, 2010 · 8:25 am

Pants on fire

When we were kids, there was a popular category of insults that went something like: “When they gave out brains, you thought they said trains, and you said, ‘Give me a slow one.’” Or “When they gave out noses, you thought they said roses, and you said ‘Give me a big red one.’”

The turn of events following Sunday’s fender bender on the Beltway has brought out my inner 12-year-old and, to the jackwagon who hit us, I say, “When they gave out morals, you thought they said quarrels and you said, ‘I don’t want any.’” I know that’s supremely lame, but I couldn’t think of any rhymes for conscience, ethics or integrity.

Here are a few more details pertaining to the accident and then I’ll give you the upshot.

After smacking into our car, Mr. White Cadillac Driver pulled over to an outer lane of the busy bridge where he hit us. He got out of his car, came up to ours and said, “I’m sorry about that. I was trying to change lanes and thought someone was going to let me in but they didn’t and I hit your car” and then provided his insurance and contact information. Because he admitted fault and our blocking a lane was a safety hazard, we opted not to call the police. He mentioned the brand new Cadillac belonged to his wife, who was not in the car.

After we got home, we called Mr. Cadillac Driver’s insurance company and ours and reported the accident.

The next day, after I blogged about what was simply “an inconvenience,” we learned that he reported to his insurance company that the accident was not his fault. The company denied our claim.

Now I suspect perhaps Mrs. Cadillac had something to do with this, but I have no proof. (But can’t we all just picture that conversation?)

Now while the two insurance companies duke it out, it is going to cost $2,500 and up to three weeks to have my car repaired. But here’s what sticks in my craw. He abandoned his conscience and lied. (I am reminded of the O’Jays’ song, “Backstabbers.”  “They smile in your face…”)

I recently received a message from a reader, bemoaning the apparent cultural trend toward claiming innocence, even when guilty, until caught. Paris “the-cocaine-in-my-purse-isn’t-mine” Hilton is a recent example.

In the case of Mr. Cadillac, I’d like to think either conscience or first instinct prompted him to admit fault and apologize. Then, for whatever, reason—absence of witnesses, change of heart, sticker shock, an angry wife—he changed his story. And now, like Miss Hilton, he is out to see how far he will get.

While I believe people are fundamentally good, my experience with the ethically challenged is that, once they have told a lie, they begin to believe it. Conscience no longer plays a role. Delusion and entitlement take over.

I’m not sure which hurts worse, $2,500 worth of dings and dents or a swift, sharp stab in the back.

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October 19, 2010 · 8:13 am

Can’t help falling in love

I have a new love in my life. He is black, has advanced arthritis, is mostly deaf and is 96. I am head over heels crazy about him. And I know he loves me. His name is Elvis.

Elvis is a 19-year-old cat who ran away from home, from across the street, about three weeks ago. He divides his time between our yard and that of our next door neighbors, with whom we share a driveway. In fact, the driveway is his favorite place to sleep. He doesn’t respond to the sound of a car engine or horn, which means I have to physically move him when I want to get in or out of the driveway.

The poor little guy is fur and bones, with a raspy Clint Eastwood-esque meow, with which he greets me every morning, before and after I go to the gym. He follows me to my front door, hoping to get a look at my house cats, Ricky and Lucy. It’s our little ritual. He still has quite a purr going, and he is wildly affectionate. He doesn’t seem to have any interest in going home; perhaps he knows something about his future that he wants to keep on the DL.

I love Ricky and Lucy dearly, but I have a special fondness for Elvis. Ricky and Lucy are my babies, but Elvis is my man, my scrawny little hunka burning love.

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