Update: twice a week

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I have been fooling around with this blog again, now that my energy is coming back, and have decided that two blogs a week (Sunday and Thursday) are perfectly sufficient for now – for myself (to make myself feel productive) and for all of you readers (so that you don’t have to read too much of my drivel).

Now and then there will be a special post – like this one – but they will almost always be short or topical or informational or seasonally-oriented.

How’s that for a deal?

Happy Christmas from your sleepy little friend . . . .

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Botanizing

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In Tove Jansson’s Moomin books (which you should read, if you haven’t), there’s a character – a Hemulen, if that means anything to you – who collects stamps. He finally collects all of the stamps in the entire world. He despairs, because now his life has no purpose anymore. But then he realizes: he can start collecting plants instead! His life has meaning again!

I love plants. I don’t have a garden, which means I subsist on a few houseplants and a few office-grown things (which I’m very proud of, as they’ve grown extraordinarily). So, when I walk back and forth to work, I examine the gardens and yards and fields I pass by, and I identify the plants I know, and I puzzle over the ones I don’t know.

The one above, for example. What is it? Yellow vetch? Alfalfa?

Nope. I finally identified it. It’s Lotus corniculatus: bird’s-foot trefoil.

I walk by a field full of it every morning on my way to work. First I noticed them out of the corner of my eye, thinking I knew what they were. Then I took a closer look, and realized I wasn’t so sure.

I checked the leaves the other day, and now I’m sure. It’s L. corniculatus, all right.

Any day upon which I identify a strange plant is a good day. It gives my life a tiny bit of added meaning.

I think I must be a Hemulen.

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The art of the tummler

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Partner and I were down on Cape Cod a few weeks ago, and we ate at our favorite restaurant, Captain Parker’s in West Yarmouth. The bar is always crowded with locals (always a good sign), and the dining room is always crowded with tourists like us (also a good sign), and the seafood is excellent.

I recognized our waiter on sight, as he’s waited on us before. He was a big cheerful guy, who worked the room like an expert; he chatted us up, wanted to know if we were golfers (which flattered us both, as we’re not golfers by a long shot); he got involved in a long conversation at a neighboring table about a recent Red Sox game; he jollied up the nearby birthday-party table by wanting to know where everyone was from, and pretended to know terrible stories about people from those towns.

He was, in short, a tummler.

From Dictionary.com:

tummler [toom-ler]: noun

1.     A male entertainer as formerly employed by resorts in the Catskill Mountains, who combined the duties of a comedian, activities director, and master of ceremonies, and whose responsibility was to keep the guests amused throughout their stay.

2.     Any lively, prankish, or mischievous man.

Origin: 1930-35 Yiddish tumler, one who makes a racket.

Many of the comedians of my childhood – Milton Berle, Jerry Lewis, Danny Kaye, Phil Silvers – worked as tummlers early in their careers. Most of the big Catskills resorts have closed down since those days, of course. But the personality type (see definition #2 above) will go on forever.

Our friend at Captain Parker’s is a good tummler: friendly, amiable, and with a excellent sense of when to stop.

Some tummlers, however, do not have this nice awareness of their role. They think of themselves as the lives of the party, and end up being – well – obnoxious.

I think we all know a few of these. They’re noisy, and they never let up.

We like an occasional dose of Jerry Lewis or Milton Berle. We don’t want to live with them.

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From paradise to parking lot

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You know I have a great affection for weeds. I grew up on the edge of a National Forest, and we had more land than we could use (my parents started with twenty acres of woods and pasture, sold half, and still couldn’t figure out what to do with the remaining ten acres). There was one small patch of weeds, probably twenty feet square, just off to one side of our house, on a little hill. My mother insisted that it be mowed from time to time, but I resisted. I rejoiced in it. It had everything: dandelion, chess, quack, vetch, three kinds of clover, plaintain. I literally used to roll in that weed patch on sunny days. It was a miniature jungle, just right for a little boy.

 

 

I visit my old home on Google Earth from time to time. The house is still there (though greatly changed). But I see that my old patch of weeds is all plowed up now, made into useful ground.

 

 

What a pity.

 

 

Even here in Providence, where people have been building and ripping up and building again for over three hundred years, there are still little patches of chaos. One of my favorites was on Angell Street, a few blocks from where I’m writing this. In summer it was practically tropical; it featured a couple of gigantic trees-of-Heaven (Ailanthus altissima), that fabulous fast-growing weed tree, bigger than any I’d ever seen in southern New England, and at least two dozen smaller species.

 

 

Then, about ten years ago, the bulldozers moved in, and they plowed it under, and they built a Starbucks.

 

 

Another piece of paradise gone.

 

 

There’s another little patch close to our apartment, a hill with trees and flowers. Huge mullein thrive there, and weedy maples, and Queen Anne’s lace in summertime.

 

 

The backhoe was there this morning, ripping it all up.

 

 

Sing it, Joni Mitchell!

 

 

 

 

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Candy

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I have written about Apollonia and her sister Augusta. There is also a third sister, named (for the purposes of this blog) Agrippina.  

 

 

(All great comedy groups come in threes. Think of the Ritz Brothers. Think of the Marx Brothers. Think of the Three . . . well, you know who I mean.)

 

 

Anyway: “So we’re in the hospital,” Apollonia says. “It’s very late. Agrippina says, ‘Go get me some candy. Licorice. I want licorice.’ I said to her: ‘It’s after midnight. Where in the hell am I going to buy licorice for you?’ And, very calmly, she says: ‘Go to a movie theater.’”

 

 

Apollonia and I are silent for a moment. “That’s brilliant,” I said. “I never would have thought of that.”

 

 

“Yeah, well,” Apollonia said wearily, “listen to this. I said: ‘You think I’m gonna go out to a movie theater and get you licorice?’ And she says: ‘Yeah. And I want that kind – you know? – with the pieces that are all different shapes. You know. With the little candies stuck to them.’” Apolllonia goggled at me. “What in the hell was she talking about?”

 

 

“Allsorts,” I said, quick as a flash.

 

 

“What?” Apollonia croaked.

 

 

I was sitting in front of my desktop computer at the time, so I quickly Googled an image (see above). “Licorice allsorts,” I said. “My favorite. I loved them as a child. Not commonly available. Buy them when you can.”

 

 

“Oh my God!” Apollonia moaned. “You know about this stuff too!”

 

 

That same day, I went to two CVS locations, and a Bed Bath & Beyond, and a RiteAid, and two other places, and I’m still looking for licorice allsorts. (I’m sure they’re available online, but that’s like shooting fish in a barrel. I want to find them in the wild, in their natural environment.)

 

 

When you’re a child, what do you want? Candy. But adults won’t let you have it.

 

 

The most wonderful thing about adulthood is that you can buy yourself all the candy and toys you like, and no one can stop you or say no.

 

 

I will find licorice allsorts. And I will buy a package for Agrippina, and five or six packages for myself, and maybe some bubble gum for Apollonia (she’s a big Bazooka fan, though she will settle for Dubble Bubble).

 

 

And we will all be childishly happy.

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Keurig

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Partner and I have gone through a lot of coffeemakers. We did the espresso pot (which was my baby, born of my North African experience), but you really have to love espresso, and Partner doesn’t. We’ve done Mr. Coffee at least twice, but you know how mediocre Mr. Coffee coffee can be. Also French press (which is a lot of work). Also a percolator, for a brief time.

 

 

Now I think we’ve found something that works for both of us.

 

 

I’ve had the Keurig system in the office for a number of years. My boss loved it, and (though it cost a lot of money) he insisted that we stick with it. The coffee, I admit, is very good. You make it a cup at a time, and you choose what coffee you make, as there are lots of different K-cup pods (depending on what you purchase). And it’s really mostly very good.

 

 

Partner and I had a gift certificate, and made up our minds to take the plunge.

 

 

Well, the home Keurig machine is wonderful.

 

 

First of all, the machine is adorable. It has a dim blue light playing around it when it’s active. It makes a soft crick-crick noise as it’s brewing coffee, like a cricket chirping. It’s sort of adorable.

 

 

Partner likes his coffee a bit milder; I like mine dark. We have already discovered preferred brands: his is Green Mountain Nantucket, and I am gravitating toward Caribou.

 

 

And both of us can have what we like!

 

 

It’s Utopia!

 

 

We can have tea, or cider, or chocolate. I have ordered a box of decaf, as I know that more than two or three cups of strong coffee turn me into a quivering wreck. Partner has ordered some chamomile tea, for sleepless evenings.

 

 

And we can keep exploring. Every coffee and tea manufacturer in the universe – Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, Twinings – is into this. They put out variety packs, so that you can try different blends and focus on your favorites.

 

 

Caveat: it’s kind of expensive. The coffeemaker was $160. A box of 20 K-cups (which equal 20 cups of coffee) is more or less $12.00, depending on how rich your tastes are. (Of course, if you were used to buying your coffee from Starbucks, this is a huge savings.)

 

 

But here’s the thing: both Partner and I are enjoying our morning coffee now, in a way we weren’t before.

 

 

Isn’t that worth something?

 

 

Think about it, you coffee-drinkers.

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Rhode Island: the best place in the world to live

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I was listening to one of those endless radio talk shows the other day while riding the University shuttle. The topic was: Is Rhode Island a good place to live? “Of course it is,” one of the participants said. “It’s great. I’m glad I live here. I mean, my god, the beaches are great!”

 

 

“That’s it?” another participant said.

 

 

“Well,” the first participant said, “there’s a lot of culture here, and music, and – um – beaches –“

 

 

“You know,” Participant Number Two said, “I’ve been hearing that for years. Culture? Probably you want Boston or New York. Music, probably LA or Seattle or New York. Beaches? You know, I would have said Hawaii.”

 

 

“But still!” Number One said. “It’s great for so many reasons!”

 

 

“Like the beaches?” said Number Two in a bored voice.

 

 

And on like that for some time.

 

 

I didn’t know what to think when I first moved to Rhode Island. I remember walking downtown on a cloudy weekend in early September 1978, and frankly the place looked like WWII Dresden: bombed-out and dismal. There were (and are) bright cheerful bits of architecture, and lovely bits of history, but much of the city is urban/gray/utilitarian.

 

 

There have been (many) ups and downs since then. Downtown (we call it “Downcity”) keeps getting “revived,” and then gets “revived” again. We are between revivals right now. There are a few positive signs: the Arcade, one of the oldest and most historic buildings downtown, is getting another facelift. (This is its third facelift in thirty years. Maybe this one will do the trick.)

 

 

I’ve said it before: Providence (and, by extension, all of Rhode Island) is a big ugly dog. You love it even though it slobbers all over you. In fact, you love it because it slobbers all over you.

 

 

Also, there are those beaches.

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August

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(Note: this is a silly sentimental blog, about the passage of time, daily life, getting older, etc. If you don’t like that kind of thing, stop reading now.)

 

 

Okay. Here goes:

 

 

I have always loved the month of August. In the Pacific Northwest where I grew up, it was usually the month in which we got some warm dry weather. As a kid, I knew it meant we were going back to school soon, but it didn’t seem to matter. Time seemed to stop in mid-August. It was (as my mother said) “beach weather”: sunny and warm and pleasant.

 

 

It’s no different here in Rhode Island. August can be brutally hot and humid here, but there are also days when it’s just – pleasant. The girls and I were sunning ourselves outdoors at lunchtime recently, and Cathleen said: “It’s a beach day.” And she was exactly right.

 

 

Sometimes there are storms, or long angry heatwaves. No matter. We know that September's right around the corner, and – whatever else happens – the weather changes in September. (Last year there was a hurricane working its way up the coast at the end of August. We lived through it.)

 

 

Sometimes – even in mid-August – there’s an occasional cool breeze. It seems to come out of nowhere. It’s a foretaste of autumn, get it? It’s a message that summer is not going to last forever.

 

 

And there are the Perseids. This is a meteor shower that happens around mid-August (this year’s peak comes next weekend, around the 11^th and 12^th of August). It is supposed to be one of the year’s most spectacular displays. (I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen a single bloody meteor. I’ve tried: I’ve waited up, and gone out in a lawn chair, and faced north. Not a single shooting star have I ever seen.)

 

 

Time stands still in mid-August. We know that summer is almost over: but it’s not over yet. The office is quiet, because so many people are away. The streets are quiet, because so many people are on vacation. Labor Day’s right around the corner, and the return to work will happen soon.

 

 

But we don’t need to think of that, do we?

 

 

Not yet, anyway.

 

 

Bring on the Perseids.

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Joe Paterno's legacy

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I think this is the third time I’ve written about the Paterno / Sandusky scandal.

 

 

This will be the last time, I promise.

 

 

But I can’t help myself.

 

 

So: Jerry Sandusky was found guilty. Then the Freeh report (which, by all accounts, was thorough and fair) found that Sandusky’s crimes were not only known to the University administration – and to Joe Paterno – but that those crimes were systematically covered up by the administration. Most damningly, this was largely at the behest of Joe Paterno himself, who wanted nothing to get in the way of his winning legacy. At one point, the administrators were about to go to the local authorities; then one of them met with Paterno, and some days later informed his colleagues that “we’re going to go another way with this.”

 

 

It’s largely on the basis of the Freeh report that institutions all over America, including Penn State itself, have quietly removed Paterno’s name from scholarships and such. Penn State took down Paterno’s statue on Sunday morning.

 

 

So it looks as if everyone’s trying to move on.

 

 

Except (sadly) for Paterno’s family.

 

 

Listen, I understand family solidarity; I admire it. It doesn’t shock or horrify me when a convicted murderer’s mother insists on his innocence. We don’t want to believe the worst of our loved ones.

 

 

But the Paterno family’s recent statements are way beyond the pale.

 

 

See if you can find the howlers in the following paragraph:

 

 

Sexual abuse is reprehensible, especially when it involves children, and no one starting with Joe Paterno condones or minimizes it. The horrific acts committed by Jerry Sandusky shock the conscience of every decent human being.  How Sandusky was able to get away with his crimes for so long has yet to be fully understood, despite the claims and assertions of the Freeh report.

 

 

Here’s my list:

 

 

-        They talk about Joe Paterno in the present tense, even though he passed away some months ago. Just a slip? Or are they implying that Joe lives on as a kind of angelic presence?

-        According to the Freeh report, Paterno did indeed minimize the crime of child abuse. He certainly considered it of less importance than his football record.

-        Sandusky’s crimes might shock a decent human being – they shock me, and I am far from being a decent human being – but Freeh established that Paterno had a pretty good idea of what Sandusky was doing, and evidently it didn’t shock Paterno enough to remove Sandusky from proximity to the kids he was abusing.

-        How did Sandusky get away with his crimes? Well, sugar, he had help. To be sure, Sandusky was dropping clues like bread crumbs all over the place – most horribly, that book of his called “Touched.” But for some reason, every time a little piece of information made its way to the Penn State administration or to the police, something (or someone) brought the action to a screeching halt.

 

 

The family's statements go on. It’s not fair to punish the college, and the students, for what Jerry Sandusky did. How does this benefit the victims? Or the students?

 

 

And so, drearily, on.

 

 

I don’t like to get too psychological, but I can just imagine what it was like to grow up with Joe Paterno as a father. One assumes that life was all about winning and losing. Sadly, the family is applying that attitude to the current situation.  They do not seem to realize that the game has already been lost. It was lost in 1998, back when their father first discovered that Sandusky was abusing children.

 

 

The family needs to retreat, and express sympathy and condolences to Sandusky’s victims, and make a generic statement like “We respect our father’s memory,” and leave the rest to silence.

 

 

Silence, in this case, as far as the Paterno family is concerned, would be best.

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How to wash your stuffed animals

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(This blog is going to be terribly icky. If you can’t stand to read about adults playing with stuffed animals, click away now.)

 

 

(Still with me? Read on.)

 

 

We have a houseful of stuffed animals. The best-loved are a little brown dog who came from CVS back in the 1990s, and a big fat polar bear we purchased with prize tickets at Dave & Buster. We act out little dramas with them, and generally have a good time. The dog’s name is “Blot,” by the way. If the polar bear has a name, I don’t know it.

 

 

 

When animals get played with, and roll around on the floor, they get dirtier and dirtier. The formerly-white polar bear was turning dingy, and a little whiffy.

 

 

Neither animal wanted to go for a ride in the washing machine, though I tried very hard to make it sound like fun.  So I looked up instructions online (from a charming website called StuffedZoo.com), and it turned out to be pretty easy, as follows (all stuffed-toy owners pay attention, now):

 

 

-        Make sure your pets are washable. If they are stuffed with polyester fiber, and don’t have all kinds of things glued on them, then you are in luck. Polar bear had google-eye appliqués, which I removed. Both dog and polar bear were wearing pretty necklaces, which I also removed.

-        If they’re stained, dab laundry detergent on the stains.

-        Put them in a lingerie bag or pillowcase, and tie it up. (The spin cycle can be traumatic if you’re a little brown dog.)

-        Wash on the gentlest cycle.

-        Dry carefully. (I took them out of the bag and let them go commando in the dryer. In forty-five minutes, they were nice and dry, and neither looked the worse for it.)

-        If they’re not entirely dry, StuffedZoo.com recommends using a blowdrier. The kids can help with this; tell them that it’s a pet makeover session, and the pets are going to the salon.

 

 

The whole family is clean and lovely now. I reglued the Polar Bear’s eyes, and he can see again. He was a little shell-shocked by the washer/dryer thing, but when he saw how bright and clean he was, he forgave us. The little dog is also much cleaner, and looks much fluffier now.

 

 

And both of them are bragging about how brave they are, and how the other was crying like a baby the whole time.

 

 

But you know how kids are.

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Executives who bake!

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The other day in the office, one of our Executive Directors leaned into my office and said, “There are brownies and pound cake down the hall, if you want some.”

 

 

“Well, that’s nice!” I said.  “From University catering?  Or did someone bake?”

 

 

“I baked,” he said shyly.  “Last night.”

 

 

As I said to some other people in the office, after tasting his brownies and pound cake: we really need to hire more executives like this.

 

 

His brownies were very rich and chocolaty. (Apollonia, the other day, tasting a generic catering brownie, said that it “tasted brown,” and I understood that completely).  Executive Director’s pound cake was the teensiest bit dry, but the chocolate chips mixed into the cake more than made up for it.   (Pound cake really needs something with it: whipped cream, fruit – you know what I mean.)

 

 

But imagine: an executive director in the kitchen, in the evening, after work, baking!

 

 

This guy is very nearly unbelievable.  He does things with his kids, he does heavy labor in his backyard, he bakes, he runs marathons –

 

 

I’m exhausted thinking about it.  It’s going on eleven p.m. as I write this, and I am listening to the Beethoven sonatas and feeling tired.  I am not baking, not playing football with my kids –

 

 

Ah.

 

 

I am thinking perhaps I should bake something complicated, just to validate my existence.

 

 

Galette aux pommes, anyone?

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The waiting room

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I write this while sitting in the waiting area of a medical office, waiting for Partner to have a two-hour test.  There is a TV in the corner (tuned to MSNBC). We are all sitting numbly and basking in its glow.

 

 

(In my youth, back in the 1950s and 1960s, doctors and dentists had aquariums full of all kinds of crazy colorful creatures in their waiting rooms. The aquariums served the same purpose that televisions do today.)

 

 

The people in the waiting room can’t control the channel changer, which – I think – makes them droopy and inattentive.  This is exactly what TV viewing was like in my youth: no control.  You had your choice of a couple of things – three or four channels at most - and you made the best of it.

 

 

But here I am, tapping away on my iPad.  I can write, send emails, surf the Net. I’m free!

 

 

Quick visual survey of the area: two magazine readers, three book readers, one iPod, one person actually watching the TV.  There’s a surprising lack of representation from the iPhone / Blackberry community.  (The stats just changed: one book reader just put down his Grisham and moved in front of the TV screen.  Evidently he wanted to hear the story about Lady Gaga.)

 

 

Years of television exposure have made me TV-aware.  I can’t help listening to the television, even when I have my back to the set and am trying to think about something else. MSNBC is moderately relaxing for me because I can live with most of the opinions presented; I can live without the visual content, however, as most of their presenters look like they were hit in the face with a two-by-four. 

 

 

(But - you know? - I miss the days when doctors and dentists had aquariums.)

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Bananaland

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I discovered a nice sansevieria plant in the garbage at work recently.  I rescued it and repotted it and put it in my window; then I looked online to see how best to take care of it.  On one particular website I found these two gems: “Likes bright sunlight,” and “Keep out of bright sunlight.”

 

 

Welcome to Bananaland.

 

 

I first learned about Bananaland from my friend Joanne, when we were both in graduate school.  She was doing philosophy, I was doing Italian literature.  “What did you cover today?” I asked her one day.

 

 

“Well,” she said, “we learned about Bananaland.”

 

 

“Do tell,” I said.

 

 

“In Bananaland,” she said, “two things are true: ‘all chairs are green’ and ‘no chairs are green.’”

 

 

“Are there no chairs at all?” I asked, puzzled.

 

 

“No,” she said.  “That’s the thing.  It’s possible to have two statements that clash with one another.”  She grimaced.  “It’s a paradox.”

 

 

It happens almost every day.  Sometimes I see a store with both an OPEN and CLOSED signs displayed, and think: Welcome to Bananaland.  How about at the supermarket?  One salad dressing for $1.79, two for $4.99.  How about street signs?  Those are the commonest Bananaland combos of all: MERGE and DO NOT ENTER on the same signpost, or NO PARKING and PARKING 6:00AM – 9:00PM ONLY. 

 

 

In Bananaland, everything is permitted without argument.  You can be blonde and brunette at the same time, tall and short, fat and skinny. 

 

 

I think the entire crazy world may be Bananaland.

 

 

It’s a lot of fun, actually.

 

 

The sansevieria is thriving in my office window, by the way.  I’m giving it a lot of direct indirect light, and watering it frequently once a week. 

 

 

I expect a nice crop of bananas any day now.

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Dog collar

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I was walking home the other evening when I met a neighbor – a cute neighbor, sort of a younger Dan Hedaya – with his cute black-and-white dog.  The dog was wearing one of those awful lampshades around its neck.  “What happened?” I said, gesturing to the dog.

 

 

“He had a procedure,” the owner said.  “He's nine years old.  Look how he keeps bumping his cone!”

 

 

The dog came toward me, looking sad and winsome.  His collar was scuffed from previous encounters.  His eyes said: I had a Procedure.  Don't you feel sorry for me?

 

 

How could I not?  I patted the poor dog on the head.  “In nine years,” the owner said, “he's never gotten this much attention.”

 

 

So keep that in mind, all you young things out there.

 

 

Illness has its uses.

 

 

But you have to be at least a little cute to make it work. 

 

 

Playing cards are the work of the Devil

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I have been selling a few odds and ends on eBay lately.  One item was a nice quirky deck of Tarot cards; I got a neat ten bucks for it, and raced to the post office to mail it off to the buyer.

 

 

I can never remember the rules governing Media Mail, and I was shy to tell the lady behind the counter what was actually in the package, so I told a white lie.  “Playing cards,” I said.  “So is it Media Mail?”

 

 

She pondered for a moment, then hollered over her shoulder: “Hey, Steve!  Playing cards.  Media Mail or not?”

 

 

Steve, a skinny bearded man, stuck his head out of the back room.  “Cards are the work of the devil.”

 

 

We all had a good laugh over that one.  “Well,” I said, “that one answers itself.  It can’t possibly be Media Mail.”

 

 

“Yeah,” the lady behind the counter said.  “Imagine if they were Tarot cards!  That’d really be the work of the devil.”

 

 

Now, what voodoo inspired her to say that?  But I stuck with my original lie.  “You can use them for telling fortunes, I suppose,” I said.  “And gambling, and wasting your time with solitaire.  All of which are the devil’s work.”

 

 

I ended up paying $6.20 for Priority Mail.

 

 

Hail Satan!

 

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Sunday blog: A humanity test

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In “Dune” (both the book and the David Lynch movie), there’s a scene in which the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam tests young Paul Atreides to see if he’s a human being.  She makes him put his hand in a black box.  “What’s in the box?” Paul asks.  “Pain,” the Reverend Mother replies.

 

 

Paul passes the test.

 

 

Here is a test for you.  Go to the following link.  If you do not feel something very powerful tugging at your heart, then you are not very human, and you should stuff yourself in a dumpster immediately, or volunteer for medical experiments.

 

 

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2051780/Blind-Great-Dane-Lily-needs-home-space-HER-guide-dog-Maddison.html

 

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Home again, home again, jiggety-jig

 

 

Nous sommes revenus, mes petits animaux!

 

 

(Just got home about two hours ago.  We unpacked, and Partner is already asleep.  I'm too jazzed to sleep.  I absorbed lots of information while in Florida.)

 

 

(More soon.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The lady on the bus

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Sometimes Partner and I ride the trolley to work. It's not really a trolley; it's just a squatty little city bus with shellacked wooden seats that send you flying if the driver takes a corner too fast. But it's crafted to look like a trolley, and it's a pleasant ride, especially on a sunny morning. Naturally there's a cast of characters: the driver (usually a blonde woman sucking a lollipop); an old man with withered legs and a big smile; a rumpled academic with a huge head of hair who naps surreptitiously.

 

 

Lately there's been a new addition: a woman about our age, who dresses in lots of layers of crepe and chiffon and fabric. Think “aging hippie,” if you will. She's very brisk, she engages everyone in conversation, she's loud and gregarious. To the point of being A-N-N-O-Y-I-N-G, especially on a quiet weekday morning.

 

 

This was a snippet from last week's conversation (she was sitting right behind us, I couldn't very well not hear it): “How are you?” another woman asked her.

 

 

“Oh,” Aging Hippie fluted theatrically, “I had a really awful day at work yesterday. I got a written warning. I think my boss wants to fire me or something. Anyway: that's neither here nor there. It is what it is. Oh, can I call you later, so that you can help me with that computer thing? You know I'm helpless with that computer stuff.”

 

 

I shudder with silent laughter, and I can't even look at Partner, his eyes are squeezed shut, he's trying not to laugh too.

 

 

Questions:

 

 

• Do you find the expression “It is what it is” as loathsome as I do? I guess it's supposed to be deep: that's life, we have to accept it. But – sheesh!

• What do you suppose was in the written warning she received? Did it have anything to do with her lack of computer skills? Her talkative nature? The fact that she's always calling friends on the phone from work?

• Why is she even working in an office in the first place? I've seen her wardrobe. She could open a consignment boutique and market frilly dirndls to college girls. (Try saying those last five words over and over again, really fast.)

   

 

Anyway: she stopped riding the bus a few days ago. I think the written warning was followed by something a little harsher.

 

 

I will be looking for that consignment boutique in our neighborhood any time now!

 

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Pour prendre conge . . .

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Mes tres chers amis:


J'ecris juste pour dire que Partenaire et moi allons prendre conge pour plusiers jours en Florida, chez Mickey et Donald et Goofy.


Ce blog continuera cette semaine, parce que j'ai ecrit des petits cybercarnets en avance!


On depart pour l'aeroport demain - samedi matin - a quatre heures de matin.


Helas.


Mais c'est sur et certain que je vais recuillir des bonnes histoires la-bas en Florida . . .


A bientot, mes amis.


(Now go to translate.google.com and see how elegant my French is.)


('Bye, kids.  Talk soon.)

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Everybody's a chump

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You may have noticed the word “chump” turning up in this blog from time to time over the past few months. This is because my frenemy Apollonia, AKA the Angel of Darkness, uses it regularly, and I have picked it up by osmosis.

 

 

A “chump,” by Apollonia's definition, is anyone doing anything of which she disapproves. Eating soup, for example. “Soup is for chumps,” she announced. “It's water and maybe some noodles. Why bother?”

 

 

She made this Delphic pronouncement at lunch one day, in the presence of myself and our mutual friend Cathleen. Cathleen was – you guessed it – eating a bowl of soup. We both looked at Apollonia incredulously. “Soup is good food,” I admonished her. “The Campbell's company has been telling us that for years.”

 

 

“I like soup,” Cathleen said in a quavering tone.

 

 

“It's a waste of time,” Apollonia said, glaring at us both like the Eye of Sauron. (You know how some people just keep digging themselves in deeper and deeper? You think you've caught them in something indefensible, and they shock you by maintaining that they're right nonetheless? Like Republican presidential candidates. And like Apollonia.) “I don't have the patience for it.”

 

 

Um, well, you see what we're faced with on a daily basis.

 

 

Who else is a chump?  Let's see:

 

 

• People who go to Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun to gamble. (“You can drive to Twin River in Lincoln and lose your money there, and it's only a fifteen-minute ride and you spend less on gas.”)

• Birds. (“Half the time they're on the ground. If I could fly, you'd never find me on the ground. What's the matter with them? Do they forget they can fly? How stupid is that?”)

• Other drivers. (“So I'm sitting behind him at a traffic light, and he's not going anywhere, and I start honking my horn and yelling: 'What are you waiting for, a different shade of green?'”)

• People who cook at home rather than eating out. (“Why would you want to go to all that trouble? Not to mention doing the dishes afterward. Who needs it?”)

• People who eat imperfect bananas, i.e., bananas with any visible dark spots or imperfections. (“I want them perfect. Is that so wrong?”)

 

 

You will notice that the word “chump” is not used directly in the above statements. It is, however, always implicit.

 

 

It's in the tone of voice.

 

 

What kind of chump are you not to know that?

 

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