Call Me Crazy

My husband thinks I need an antidepressant because I don't like picnics. This being the Independence Day holiday weekend, naturally the subject has come up, since for some reason Americans like to celebrate the birth of our nation by eating outdoors and tossing around Frisbees.

Personally I think picnics are highly overrated, as are antidepressants and, for that matter, husbands. There are always bugs, which is a drag when food is concerned unless you are a native of Thailand or Mozambique where they are considered a delicacy. Otherwise, all the ants and mosquitoes and bees and flies hovering overhead are a negative. Eventually one will swoop in and blatantly occupy your food. Trust me, bugs on your food is a bad situation wherein you must abandon the whole business and slowly back away, hungry, defeated and possibly already itchy.

Besides the bugs, which will ruin even the finest Merlot or Beaujolias by floating in your glass, weather is a constant concern: If it's hot it's likely too hot, if it's sunny you get sunburned, and if it's windy your napkins blow away. Rain is always possible, and that certainly dampens spirits. Worst case scenario: A tree could fall on you (see photo).

I say if you want to enjoy a meal, eat it in a place specifically designed for that purpose, like the couch in front of the 60" flat-screen plasma TV.  If you absolutely must be uncomfortable outdoors in order to feel truly alive, like the people in those commercials for bladder control products, go camping.

Sometimes I Get Really Mad

Yesterday I purchased a can of Planter's Mixed Nuts, the label of which promised less than 50% peanuts and plenty of  almonds, cashews, Brazil nuts, hazelnuts and pecans.  When my husband opened the can later, he shouted from the next room, "It's a lie, way more than half is peanuts!"

I ignored him, or at least tried to, but his grumbling made me well aware of his foraging for another snack. Because he is on some esoteric no-peanuts regimen, he rejected the nuts and opted for some blueberries. (Mitch is now one of those hyper-health-conscious eaters recently classified as "mentally ill," but that's another blog.)

Today I ventured into the same can of nuts and found it ridiculously full of peanuts and without one Brazil nut in there! I know this for a fact because my husband hates Brazil nuts and would not eat one if you paid him (unless you paid him a lot, but otherwise no way), and I love Brazil nuts--in fact, I would go so far as to say they are my favorite nut. Also, there were about three cashews in there, two hazelnuts and maybe twelve almonds, and the rest was all peanuts! (Any pecans surely were eaten by Mitch on sight.)

Being a spoiled American who has never been hungry for a second except maybe once on Yom Kippur many years ago, I was outraged and called the number printed on the label that invited customer's comments. I got a live person almost right away, which was good news, but the bad news was she was totally pissed off at me from the word go. Her tone was quite condescending, as if she could not believe that someone was pathetic enough to make this very phone call, and she gave me some spiel about how "the contents are machine-controlled" and it was "highly unlikely" that I was correct. Perhaps I had not assessed the situation accurately?

"Hey, I know a g-d Brazil nut when I see one!" I said, perhaps too loudly.  She said there was no need for profanity. In the end she took my address and said they would mail me a rebate coupon. Then she asked for my email address so that "Mr. Peanut can see how you're doing in a few weeks."

Now that's nutty.

Please Don't Call Me

This morning I went on a walk with a friend. Our common goal was exercise, but naturally we chatted on the way. Twice we were interrupted by her ringing cell phone; both times it was her mother, a lively 83-year-old, who wanted to consult about hair appointments and the like. My friend, devoted daughter that she is, took the call both times, slowing our pace and interrupting our conversation.

My own cell phone was stashed in my sweatshirt pocket in case we crossed paths with a crazed escaped convict, or if my husband or son needed me. (If my mother had called I'd be on Oprah tomorrow, since she died in 1983.) I hate to be without it these days. Stupidly, when I'm phone-less I feel more vulnerable to harm, as if just because I don't have it with me I will have a flat tire in the Middle of Nowhere. It's stupid because the Middle of Nowhere often lacks cell service.

Technology dominates my home life as well: my husband has an iPad, an iPhone and an iMac. (In fact, he's so Macced-out, I wonder why Steve Jobs hasn't had us over for dinner.)  He insists he needs all these devices for his work, and while it's true he traffics in the Internet for a living, still I yearn for the old days--and I'm talking really old days now-- when we could throw a few things into a suitcase and be gone without having to turn around because one of us forgot the car charger for our phone, or the damn phone itself.

Would it be so terrible to travel without a phone? What's everyone gabbing about, anyway? More importantly, what really needs to be said? Unless you've dialed 9-1-1, that last phone call you made was likely dispensable. And now there is growing concern that holding the phone right up to your ear might really cause brain cancer.

Think about that the next time it rings: who is worth the risk?

Twitter is So Whack

In my ongoing effort to avoid Dinosaur status I have embraced things I might privately consider to be somewhat ridiculous; thus Twitter is now part of my world. What spurs me to do so is my young son, who is only 22 as I write this. Becoming a mother later in life, I was spared the fate of many of my generation who have fallen by the wayside as Zack kept me informed on the latest in music, societal trends, fashion, etc. For example, I now know the following things:

1. Chillin' has nothing to do with temperature or little kids.
2. Texting is the only way to communicate.
3. Biking is the new driving.
4. "Whack" has many meanings, none of which has anything to do with hitting someone on the head. (I'm still learning.)

Beyond Blogging

These days, bloggers are everywhere.  How boring. I can remember when I first heard the word--it was so odd, almost extra-terrestrial. Same with the word Google. What could they possibly mean, those very strange words? How different, how exciting!

Now everyone is a blogger. (And most are blahgers, meaning blah blah blah. By the way, I put myself in that category.) Every job board is seeking bloggers to blog about all kinds of things, mostly having to do with green, social, sustainability and political issues. Another popular blogging request is about interior decorating. What's to say about that? Get a couch, get a few chairs, a dining room table, a bed, maybe a dresser...you're good to go.

 Nobody is seeking bloggers on the subjects of death and dying, for example, something that happens to everyone, yet few people are prepared for it and nobody ever wants to talk about it!

Perhaps I will start a Death Blog.  To make it palatable, maybe it should be about the funny side of death.

To be continued...

The Big Zero

In the past two months I have written 24 articles, with accompanying photos, for a website called Portland Examiner.  They have mostly been about food purveyors since my "beat" is grocery stores, and a couple are about people since I got a new beat called Everyday People. Now, when you Google my name they come up. For all this work, I have earned the sum total of: Zero.

This is the sorry state of freelance writing these days. Job boards that once ran ads for paying customers like magazines and associations have become the middle men for websites selling content and ad space. The writer gets "exposure" and a percentage of the take, which often comes out to: Zero.

Sites like Red Room and Suite 101 and Examiner and Demand Studios and Rafter JumpOn all exclaim excitedly, "Now you can make money from the comfort of your home by telecommuting!"  And they pay you : Zero.

So I might just as well write on my own blog where I can say whatever I want, have just as few --or just as many--readers, and earn the same amount: Zero.

Do Ya Think She's Jewish?

There's all this debate about whether Elena Kagan, Obama's pick for the Supreme Court, is or is not gay. All I have to say is --please.

The fact that she refuses to divulge her sexual preference, and that the White House also won't talk about it, makes me sick! Have they never heard about being gay and proud?  What the heck is going on in this country? Everyone and their mother is gay these days, and here is this brilliant woman who is allegedly gay-- many of her friends have admitted it-- and yet it is an issue they will not go near during the upcoming hearings that will determine whether or not Kagan becomes the 112th justice of the court.

What I'm wondering is if she's transgender. Lose the earrings and it's John Goodman.

Smarty Pants

Is it just me or has anyone else noticed how cliches are overtaking our language, culture, and thinking? No matter where you are or who you're talking to, words like "sustainable," "green," and "organic" fly out of people's mouths like watermelon pits at a picnic.

And suddenly everyone who is anyone is savvy. So far today--and it's only lunchtime-- I heard a "savvy young writer" being interviewed on the radio, read a Q & A with a "savvy broadcaster" in the newspaper, saw a "savvy chef" on one of those moronic morning TV shows, and just now, came across a  review of a book by yet another savvy writer, although this one is also "up-and-coming," online.

Ditto for Elena Kagan, the woman just nominated by Obama to be the newest justice of the US Supreme Court. Were I fixing her up with a friend for a blind date, I would describe her as short, smart, fat, and dykey-looking with bad hair (oh relax, she is NOT reading this!), but according to today's Portland Press Herald, Kagan is "sharp and politically savvy."

Just to be sure, since I thought maybe I'd missed something, I checked the dictionary and confirmed that savvy means someone who years ago would have been called "a regular Einstein." But in today's hectic, fast-paced world, it isn't enough to be just knowledgeable, or even smart or brilliant; these days, you gotta be savvy.

I'm not sure, but I think I might be too old to be savvy since everyone who is seems to also be young. Even fat Elena Kagan, who at 50 would be the youngest justice on the court, is a mere baby while I am suddenly "a woman of a certain age."  Which makes you wonder: why are there no men of a certain age?

Imagine Waking Up Here

I stole this photograph from another blog! It's so beautiful, I wanted to share it with whoever stumbles upon my page. That's one of the good things about the Internet.

Eat Before You Go

I read recently that Cirque du Soleil, the innovative Canadian acrobatics troupe, is planning to join the posthumous Michael Jackson business with two shows based on his music. Fine and dandy, certainly everyone agrees that Jackson's music was great. But the article went on to say that the show, scheduled for the Las Vegas casino, MGM's Mirage, would be "more akin to a theme park attraction" and would include a "nightclub and restaurant with a Michael Jackson theme." Got me wondering just what would be on that menu...

Let's see, after years of getting beaten by his evil father who used him as a cash cow from the age of three, Jackson spent his childhood on stage, in buses, on trains and planes. As an adult (sort of but not really), he was repeatedly accused of child molestation, causing his music to be banned from the radio and him to be blackballed by the entertainment community and his former fans for the last ten years of his life.  He took powerful drugs to lighten his skin, turning himself into a close approximation of a white woman through so many plastic surgery procedures that his nose all but fell off.  Ultimately he died at the fairly young age of 50 from an overdose of prescription drugs.

There was more: The fantasy compound he built for himself and named Neverland, complete with giraffes and amusement park rides on the property; his thwarted attempt to purchase the remains of the Elephant Man; his odd relationships that resulted in three children he essentially bought from their mothers who posed briefly as marital partners.

So now let's all take a moment to imagine that nightclub and restaurant with "a Michael Jackson theme." I'll tell you right now, when I'm in Vegas, I am not eating there.

Living the Dream

My dear friends in New York, D.C. and a couple in Florida have worried that there is little to do here in Maine, culturally speaking. To them, I offer the following proof that their fears are unfounded:

Today's Portland Press Herald lists two events taking place at the same time in two different locations, forcing me to choose only one.  A lecture on "What Solitary Woodchucks Can Teach Us About Family Dynamics" will be held in South Portland, while a seminar entitled "Overview of the Natural History of Common Loons" will take place half an hour later in Freeport, at least a twenty-five minute drive from the woodchuck lecture. Add to this the ongoing blood drives, bean suppers and firearm demonstrations and you'll have some idea of what I'm dealing with.

Anyway, since I've always wondered--and who among us hasn't?-- how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood, I'm heading to South Portland.

Beyond Comprehension

I just watched a train wreck and I didn't even have to leave home to see it. It appeared in the form of a movie called "Beyond the Sea," which I passed on when it was playing in the theaters because I suspected it sucked, but rented on the strength of two strong endorsements. (Remind me next time never to doubt my instincts.)

The movie was a biopic of the life--and death-- of Bobby Darin, a truly great singer who I worshiped from afar as a teenager. He was a pop singer with tremendous talent who "crossed over" to win fans from all generations back in the 1960s. The tragedy was that he died at the age of 37 of a heart attack from an underlying heart disease. An even bigger tragedy is that this movie, written by Kevin Spacey and produced by Kevin Spacey, starred Kevin Spacey as Bobby Darin. Hey, Kevin Spacey passed 37 a long time ago, yet here he was trying to pass himself off as a 20-something heartthrob.

We got to see Kevin Spacey singing and Kevin Spacey dancing. (How embarrassing.) Oh, and Kevin Spacey acting, although you never for a minute bought that it was anyone but Kevin Spacey, certainly not Bobby Darin. In fact, I had to stop the movie halfway through and go watch some real Bobby Darin videos on YouTube to remember how cool and great he was. I finished the movie only to find out how he died, since I never really knew.

Long, boring fantasy dance numbers never made any sense. This was no "Thriller," which it was trying to be. It was also no "All That Jazz," a similar but million-times-better movie about dancer Bob Fosse that I might have to watch again just to get this bad movie out of my head. Making matters even worse, if that was possible, was a really obnoxious, unattractive and talentless child cast as the young Bobby Darin.

I'm sure you weren't planning to, but do not rent this movie. In fact, don't even watch it for free. It was such a mess that I ate almost a whole bag of Milanos, and I'm on a diet.

An Alternate Universe

Last night I played bridge. As the only one in our foursome who reached adulthood without learning this card game, I was at a distinct disadvantage. It’s sort of like being abducted by aliens and waking up on another planet where they all speak the same language and you don’t even know how to ask, “Where’s the bathroom?”

In fact, if you’re playing bridge, “Where's the bathroom?” might actually mean, “I have five hearts and the ace of spades.” But only if you play that way. If you play another way, it could mean, “I have many clubs and no diamonds,” or maybe even, “Where's the kitchen?” That’s the thing with bridge: Nothing means what it sounds like it means. (Of course, if you’ve spent your formative years indoors playing bridge, the ins and out of this private world are second nature to you. You can easily spot those people by their pallor.)  

For example, I thought bidding “one club” was the way to tell my partner that I had pretty good clubs in my hand. But no! In bridge talk, I was unwittingly asking if my partner had hearts or spades, and had nothing at all to do with clubs!  Of course, if you play “preferential diamonds,” a bid of “one diamond” means the same thing. But that’s a big If, and the only way to know is to....ask them. You can do this in regular English, unlike the rest of the game when you have to talk in Bridge.

Silly me, I didn't ask, and naturally I was the evening's Biggest Loser. And to make matters worse, before I lost I was very, very vulnerable! Which doesn’t mean what you think it means, but has something to do with rubbers and scoring tricks and being either above or below "the line."

For me, playing bridge is similar to, but more confusing than, arguing over abortion in Corsican. I’ll explain: I understand French, but in Corsica they speak a unique language, part French, part Italian. Many years ago, I was in Corsica and spent an evening with a group of people who were arguing over abortion, naturally in Corsican. It was all very complicated, but every once in a while I would hear a word or a phrase that allowed me to make some sense of it all.

I was more confused last night playing bridge with my husband and friends in my own home right here in America.  Which may actually be my way of saying, I love that game and can’t wait to play again.

Honk If You've Heard of Rhadamanthus

I try to be straightforward in my writing, which is why it makes me mad when others are not. A friend of mine, a fellow blogger and writer too, commented on Facebook that a friend of his was so great, "She's Rhadamanthus." I immediately thought, she's whatahoosis? Naturally I Googled and found out that Rhadamanthus was some big deal in Greek mythology, the wise son of a king whose opinion mattered, or something along those lines.

The whole thing got me wondering: Just what the heck did we all do before Google? And how much dumber are we now because we have it? Why read, why learn, when you can just go and Google it?

A few days ago I got into a conversation with a sales clerk who reminded me of the actress Helen Mirren. When I told her that, she confided that she always wanted to look like Sandra Dee. I said, "Well, at least you're still alive." She was shocked, and said, "Oh no, when did she die?" Meanwhile my husband, who never even heard of Sandra Dee because he was a mere tot when I was a teen and Sandra ruled at the box office, got his Google on and within seconds delivered the gory details of her death, her disease, her broken marriage, her bitter end, and every movie she ever made. End of conversation. 

Mitch is the fastest draw around these parts when it comes to his iPhone. On the one hand, he's good to have around during the Sunday Times crossword puzzle. On the other, he's always right.

Anyway, I'd rather be called Acca Larentia instead of Rhadamanthus any day.  At least she was a girl.

The End of Wonderful

(Spoiler alert: The following article is not funny...at all.)

Just two days after moving here from Washington, D.C. last March, I met a local artist who urged me to attend a meeting of a group called Freeport Creative Artists to be held the next evening. My husband and I did so eagerly, thrilled at the opportunity to meet some of our fellow artists so soon!

 

When we arrived the meeting was already in progress and we were greeted with silence. Odder still, when we finally blurted out our plans to open an art gallery and asked if there were any interest among the membership, we received only stony stares and a few mumblings along the lines of  “No, not really.” We left thinking we had mistakenly stumbled into a meeting of Psychotics Anonymous.

 

Only later did we learn that the owner of a rival pseudo-gallery just two doors away from my location was the president of that very group, and in attendance at that meeting! Instead of welcoming us and collaborating on a "Friday Night Art Walk," which might have increased business for both of our establishments while enhancing the town’s reputation, she blackballed my gallery and refused even to acknowledge me in public on many occasions. To this day we have never exchanged one word.

As for press coverage, try as I might I could never get a write-up in the local paper, despite the fact that a new gallery opening right on Main Street in downtown Freeport was certainly news worth celebrating by both the art and business communities. 

In desperation after many months of slower and slower sales, and after hearing from several other gallery owners that marketing was important to our eventual success, we hired a marketing professional, or so we thought. Our $1,000 check got us nothing more than the suggestion that we “have plenty of paper plates and plastic cups on hand for art openings.”  Our hired pro couldn’t figure out how to do an e-mail blast for an upcoming opening, something allegedly included in the fee; eventually we did it ourselves. We also learned that the mailing list she gave us was pirated from another gallery in the very next town! Funny thing is, she quit after our complaining, and kept all the money. (Ouch.)

 

Finally, last month, we got the newspaper art review we had sought for so long and it was a bad one, poorly written by a freelancer who himself had suffered his own failed art gallery last year. His negative review was the final nail in our coffin. I thought, if this was the "press coverage" we so desperately needed, what could possibly help us now?

 

And so, because life is short and getting shorter every day, I have decided to stop wasting my husband's hard-earned money and shield myself from the cold hard fact that running an art gallery in Freeport is like throwing a bar mitzvah in Auschwitz: Who's coming?

Instead I plan to spend my days making beautiful art, enjoying the glories of Maine beyond my gallery's four walls, and writing my funny stories.  (This isn't one of them, but then I told you that right up front.)

 

 

The Bottom Line

There's a photo of Tiger Woods on the front page of today's Wall Street Journal. He's playing golf, and the caption says he's "back following a sex scandal." His picture is also on the front of the sports section of my local paper, the Portland Press Herald, under the headline, "Tiger's back, looking as good as ever."

Making me wonder: Why did they make such a fuss last Christmas when it surfaced that Tiger is a sexual predator, raking him and his countless mistresses over the coals for five months, only to decide it's no big deal after all? Could it have been to sell newspapers, perhaps? Even NIKE has taken Tiger back, using him once again as a spokesman and role model for young people.

Is this a great country or what? (Sometimes I think America deserves Sarah Palin...oops, I mean Governor Palin!)

MJF Seeks BLJ's for a Good Time

I’m from New York, and let’s face it, that’s a tough act to follow. But the truth is, after living here one year, I guess I’m sort of sick of this place.

It’s too white. No soul. All the people wear L.L. Bean clothing, which if you’ve seen any you know lacks style, fits poorly, and what the hay, is all made in China anyway.

If Mainers were food, they’d be bologna on white bread. And not just any white bread, Wonder bread: soft, pasty, and with no flavor other than from the mayonnaise applied liberally at every opportunity. (In case you’re wondering, I can say whatever I want here since after more than a year, I have no Maine friends who read this blog, or maybe even who read.)

Maybe it's because they're too busy scraping barnacles off their boat bottoms to do any learning, but I don't think these folks are all that smart. Think about it: there has not been one president who hails from Maine. The best they’ve got is a few actors (TV, not movies), a couple of poets and Ed Muskie. Of course there’s Marsden Hartley (Marswho Whatley?), a great painter you probably never heard of unless you majored in art.

This might be a giant leap, and an obnoxious one at that (I said right up front I'm a New Yorker), but I think what they need here is a few hundred thousand blacks, some Latinos and maybe a couple more Jews. 

Any takers? It's very pretty.

I'm Verklempt!

Today Mitch wanted to grill something for dinner, it being a beautiful Easter Sunday and us being Jews with nothing special to do like pray, hunt for colored eggs, or in any way celebrate the rising of Christ from the ground.

He went to the store for three items and three items only: charcoal, meat to put on the charcoal, and a vegetable to go with the meat that went on the charcoal. He returned with the meat, two bananas, a bottle of wine, a tomato, a dog cookie, a yellow squash and some rather tired looking Brussels sprouts, but no charcoal.

Discuss.

Just Keep Your Mouth Shut!

In my continuing series on the stupidity of mankind, I present to you the following fact as reported in this morning’s Portland Press Herald : The federal government will give the city of Portland $1.8 million for projects aimed at reducing obesity.  According to surveys, 62% of the adults in Maine are overweight.

The article goes on to say that "for years, Portland city officials have brainstormed ways to combat obesity among children and adults.” Following are some of the ideas they have come up with and can now implement, thanks to the federal grant:
1. Installing salad bars in schools
2. Encouraging children to walk to school
3. Hiring a nutritionist to analyze meals served at local restaurants
4. Installing 80 bicycle racks around the city
5. Adopting policies to increase physical activity
6. Labeling healthy foods in school cafeterias
7. Creating a bicycle lane, possibly, on a section of Congress Street

You see where I’m going with this: How ridiculous! I especially like Idea #2, and wonder how much of the grant money that will use up. As for the encouragement, I can hear it now: “Please honey, just walk to school every day this week and I'll take you to McDonald’s this weekend!”

Nowhere does it say anything about outlawing the following: Fritos, Cheetos, Doritos, Pizza Hut, Cinnabon, Dunkin’ Donuts, Arby’s, Wendy’s, Burger King, McDonald’s, Taco Bell, Mrs. Field’s cookies, Sara Lee’s cheesecake, Little Debbie’s everything, Ben & Jerry’s, Baskin Robbins, Pepperidge Farm, Frosted Mini Wheats, Lucky Charms, Dove Bars, Butterfingers, Snickers, Almond Joy, granola, the frozen foods section of the supermarket, hot dog eating contests (see photo), Hershey’s Chocolate, Kentucky Fried Chicken, or the latest Starbucks concoction of whipped cream, sugar and, oh yeah, coffee.

I guess that nutritionist in Idea #3 has her work cut out for her.

I See Dead People

Time was, there were 25 or 30 folks jockeying for position at my grandmother’s Seder on the first night of Passover. It was always held at my parents’ house, since my grandparents lived in a 1-bedroom apartment in Queens.

People flew across country to attend. There was food like nothing seen before or since, and nowhere else: roast turkey, brisket, salads and potatoes and vegetables and gefilte fish and matzo ball soup and matzo meal pancakes and matzo kugel and macaroons afterwards, and those brightly colored kosher jelly candies that I could eat a whole box of right now.

There were aunts and uncles and cousins and my parents of course, and my sister and even invisible spirits like Elianovah or Elijah or Eliahu, depending on where in Russia or Poland your grandparents were from.

There was Manishewitz and Mogen David wine even if you were only 11 or 12, leading to the famous note my mother wrote when I was in the 7th grade: “Dear ----, Andrea did not do her homework last night because she got drunk at dinner and slid under the table, where she remained until this morning.”

And now, here it is again and I am alone. My husband’s in Philly on business, our son is in Burlington and most probably—no, most definitely--doesn't even know it’s Passover, and everyone who was anyone in that particular circle is dead. I will celebrate by having my dinner and watching reruns of “Everyone Loves Raymond” on TV.

Let's face it: The longer you live, the more ghosts surround you.

That's Adorable!

Let me start by saying my husband is very smart, graduated from a really good university that I will not name-drop here for fear of being accused of name-dropping, and is quite successful in his profession. That said, I must ask: How come he’s so dumb?

A few days ago Mitch offered to go to the grocery store to pick up a few things we needed for dinner. Inwardly I groaned, remembering his past solo shopping expeditions, but outwardly I accepted the offer since I didn’t want to go myself. Naturally he said what all men say before they go off to buy food for the family: “Make me a list.” This irks me no end, since he spends an hour every night before bed making detailed To-Do lists for work the next day, but when it comes to food, he can’t make a list. (Hey, open the fridge, buy what isn’t there, how hard is that?)

Moving on, I made a short list; we needed a very few things. Minutes later Mitch called from the store to say he had left the list at home on the kitchen counter.  Adept at multi-tasking, I read the list to him over the phone while simultaneously elevating my blood pressure, then hung up and took an extra pill.

Mitch arrived home. Instead of cole slaw to accompany our barbecued chicken, he had purchased salmon salad.  “Why this?” I asked. He thought it was cole slaw, apparently in his world the two are indistinguishable.

“But there' s a label right on the top of the clear plastic container that says salmon salad, and it costs five times as much! Didn’t you notice, besides the fact that the stuff inside is not greenish shredded cabbage but pinkish chopped fish, that this little bit of what you believed to be cole slaw cost you $8.75?”

“I thought it was pretty expensive.”

Mitch hopes I will eventually find things like this endearing. In the interest of my blood pressure, I am trying.

Two On the Aisle

In just three days I will voluntarily enter, along with about a hundred other people, a small metal tube with an outer skin no thicker than aluminum foil, stuff myself into an uncomfortable seat for five hours or more, invite the possibility of a blood clot in one or both legs going straight to my heart and killing me, and if absolutely necessary, use a toilet that is more like a toddler's potty seat. 

I'd like to believe my husband will be sitting at my side if the worst happens, but if history is my teacher he forgot to get seat assignments and I'll be clutching some stranger's hand in my final moments. Making matters worse, I have paid handsomely to engage in this horror show I call "My Flight to Seattle."

I hate flying, but not just for all the appropriate reasons everyone else does; I earned my stripes during a bad experience years ago. My first flight, when I was 22, ended with a downward spiral into an emergency landing in an open field near Frederick, Maryland. Eastern Shuttle, New York to DC, down and out the emergency chute, FBI agents swarming the site, bomb squad spraying foam.  (I have told this story so many times, this is all I can manage anymore.)

Anyway, if all goes well on Sunday I will spend the week visiting with one of my very best friends who I have not seen in ten years.  Otherwise, I leave this note to my son: Our will is on the desk in the guest room. Please feed the cats. Rufus is at the kennel. Love you, xxxx, Mom.