I used to be afraid of cats. My parents bordered on animal-phobic, so we never had a pet when I was young.
I promised my daughter when she was little that we would get a pet when we bought our home.
Coworkers urged me to get a cat instead of a dog, because cats are so much easier. With Jim's help, Alison and I chose our first cat from a rescue home, and my daughter named her Kitty.
Kitty was affectionate and gentle, but sadly she died a few years later from diabetes.
Our next cat, Marley, came into our lives from a friend's mom who had him rescued from a tree. Jim came home from work one night and found Marley lying at the doorstep, presumably napping. Except Marley had mysteriously died. Jim said he looked peaceful.
We next adopted Emma from the pound. She has striking blue-green eyes and is timid, never thrilled about being touched. Not long after, Henry, a furry black stray cat with light green eyes and a clueless look on his face, simply showed up on Jim's doorstep. We lived at Jim's at the time, and when I returned home to live, I couldn't bring myself to break up Henry and Emma.
Nowadays, living alone, I have Grace Kelly, who was lovingly rescued at 3 weeks by Jim's daughter, Amber.
Grace crawls onto my chest, lays down facing me, and lets me scratch behind her ears. She closes her eyes, purrs in my face, and tickles me with her whiskers.
Sometimes Grace extends her paws and tucks them under my neck. It always reminds me of the vision of Superman, flying through the air with his arms straight out.
Grace Kelly is my Supercat. She rescues me time and again, never failing to lift me back into the present, and put a smile on my face.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
The Kindness of Neighbors
Last Thursday I went to see Aunt Millie at the nursing home. She had just returned from the hospital the night before, but was now vomiting, and had to be transported back to the hospital.
She was so disappointed, so tired of all the moves, yet so incredibly strong.
I cried as I drove home, feeling sorry for myself because I had no one to hug me.
A few minutes later, at my lowest moment, my phone rang. It was my neighbor Kathy who must have seen me come home. She asked if I was hungry and whether I would like some lasagna that her husband, Evan, had made.
That simple offer, and amazing timing, lifted my spirit and fed my soul.
The lasagna was pretty damn good too!
Thank you, neighbors, for your random act of kindness at a time that I needed it the most.
She was so disappointed, so tired of all the moves, yet so incredibly strong.
I cried as I drove home, feeling sorry for myself because I had no one to hug me.
A few minutes later, at my lowest moment, my phone rang. It was my neighbor Kathy who must have seen me come home. She asked if I was hungry and whether I would like some lasagna that her husband, Evan, had made.
That simple offer, and amazing timing, lifted my spirit and fed my soul.
The lasagna was pretty damn good too!
Thank you, neighbors, for your random act of kindness at a time that I needed it the most.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The Inauguration
I've already had tears in my eyes while watching the Inauguration this morning. So many people at the Capitol -- it's mind-blowing.
Wow, Al and Tipper Gore following Dan Quayle down the steps to the platform. It took me a minute to remember Quayle's name -- evidence of his lack of an imprint on American history.
George H.W. and Barbara Bush enter. The only exciting thing there is that George is moments away from returning to civilian life, having challenged the entire Middle East with stupid phrases like "Bring it on" and "Shock and Awe." What a maroon.
It's a miracle the world is still intact, in spite of his devastating eight years in a position of power so undeserved and FAR beyond his abilities.
Speaking of inept, Cheney is in a wheel chair today because he hurt his back while moving boxes from his office yesterday. Ha! Karma for shooting his friend while hunting.
Jimmie and Rosalyn Carter, I've always loved them -- epitome of decency.
Bill and Hillary next. Bill's not looking happy, no smiles. You can almost hear his thoughts, perhaps something like "This should be Hillary's and MY day..."
As much as I like Hillary, I hate to admit that if she had won the Presidency, this inauguration day would have been lackluster.
Barack is in a league of his own, able to attract more than one million people on a freezing cold day. The excitement is palpable, the attendance overwhelming.
The military bands and intros of the former Presidents. Their appearances easily emphasize Obama's youth and energy. Nice touch!
The long shot of the mall packed with people is breathtaking.
The moment is almost here, they just announced the Obama girls, what a couple of cuties! And their grandmother. Right on, Mrs. Robinson! Your help as a caretaker paid off in ways you probably never imagined.
Laura Bush and Lynn Cheney, yawn. Nice, but not impressed w/ either. Stepford-like, ya know?
Michele and Jill, the new ladies in charge, looking fabulous! So classy, both of them, and not afraid to share their opinions either...
George and Dick will be next, can't wait to see the wheelchair again. Maybe he'll try to enter walking, out of sheer pride.
Nope, he's being wheeled out and hangs a LEFT to go down the ramp. How sweet is the irony in his being forced to go left?
George makes his last appearance as "President of the United States," or POTUS for "West Wing" fans.
George kisses Hillary, now that's a photo op!
Joe Biden next, looking competent.
The camera takes a peek at Barack as he approaches the entrance and stops to wait for his announcement.
The NBC voice over suggests what a lonely moment this must be for Barack, truly carrying the weight of the world.
Old white guys next, followed by Diane Feinstein and Nancy Pelosi.
Please be quiet and move out of the way. I can't stand it.
Regal trumpet-playing reminds me of a coronation.
And then, an unbelievable ROAR from the crowd, and a shot over the mall of hundreds of thousands little flags waving through the crowd like flocks of birds.
People cry. What a sight for this challenged country's eyes! It is one of the most memorable events in decades.
Diane Feinstein speaks briefly. Love her.
A prayer comes next -- sudden silence.
Personally, I could have done w/o the Our Father--it doesn't belong in politics.
ARETHA, sporting a wild hat with an oversized bow, sings My Country Tis of Thee.
Her finale, "Let freedom ring" brings on another ROAR.
Joe's sworn in at 11:57 a.m., January 20, 2009. Pretty good timing.
Itzhak Perlman and Yo-Yo Ma, holy cow. Beautiful, moving strings.
Lone clarinet plays 'Air and Simple Gifts' followed by a mix of piano, strings, clarinet.
It's here -- THE OATH! Justice Roberts mixes up the words -- how embarrassing for him. Maybe next time he'll bring the cheat sheet. What was he thinking?
Barack gracefully makes his promise, and the Marine band plays.
I think of my father. Wherever his soul is today, he is watching this with tears in his eyes. He was a very proud World War II, Iwo Jima Marine, 5th Division.
President Barack Obama.
Welcome.
Wow, Al and Tipper Gore following Dan Quayle down the steps to the platform. It took me a minute to remember Quayle's name -- evidence of his lack of an imprint on American history.
George H.W. and Barbara Bush enter. The only exciting thing there is that George is moments away from returning to civilian life, having challenged the entire Middle East with stupid phrases like "Bring it on" and "Shock and Awe." What a maroon.
It's a miracle the world is still intact, in spite of his devastating eight years in a position of power so undeserved and FAR beyond his abilities.
Speaking of inept, Cheney is in a wheel chair today because he hurt his back while moving boxes from his office yesterday. Ha! Karma for shooting his friend while hunting.
Jimmie and Rosalyn Carter, I've always loved them -- epitome of decency.
Bill and Hillary next. Bill's not looking happy, no smiles. You can almost hear his thoughts, perhaps something like "This should be Hillary's and MY day..."
As much as I like Hillary, I hate to admit that if she had won the Presidency, this inauguration day would have been lackluster.
Barack is in a league of his own, able to attract more than one million people on a freezing cold day. The excitement is palpable, the attendance overwhelming.
The military bands and intros of the former Presidents. Their appearances easily emphasize Obama's youth and energy. Nice touch!
The long shot of the mall packed with people is breathtaking.
The moment is almost here, they just announced the Obama girls, what a couple of cuties! And their grandmother. Right on, Mrs. Robinson! Your help as a caretaker paid off in ways you probably never imagined.
Laura Bush and Lynn Cheney, yawn. Nice, but not impressed w/ either. Stepford-like, ya know?
Michele and Jill, the new ladies in charge, looking fabulous! So classy, both of them, and not afraid to share their opinions either...
George and Dick will be next, can't wait to see the wheelchair again. Maybe he'll try to enter walking, out of sheer pride.
Nope, he's being wheeled out and hangs a LEFT to go down the ramp. How sweet is the irony in his being forced to go left?
George makes his last appearance as "President of the United States," or POTUS for "West Wing" fans.
George kisses Hillary, now that's a photo op!
Joe Biden next, looking competent.
The camera takes a peek at Barack as he approaches the entrance and stops to wait for his announcement.
The NBC voice over suggests what a lonely moment this must be for Barack, truly carrying the weight of the world.
Old white guys next, followed by Diane Feinstein and Nancy Pelosi.
Please be quiet and move out of the way. I can't stand it.
Regal trumpet-playing reminds me of a coronation.
And then, an unbelievable ROAR from the crowd, and a shot over the mall of hundreds of thousands little flags waving through the crowd like flocks of birds.
People cry. What a sight for this challenged country's eyes! It is one of the most memorable events in decades.
Diane Feinstein speaks briefly. Love her.
A prayer comes next -- sudden silence.
Personally, I could have done w/o the Our Father--it doesn't belong in politics.
ARETHA, sporting a wild hat with an oversized bow, sings My Country Tis of Thee.
Her finale, "Let freedom ring" brings on another ROAR.
Joe's sworn in at 11:57 a.m., January 20, 2009. Pretty good timing.
Itzhak Perlman and Yo-Yo Ma, holy cow. Beautiful, moving strings.
Lone clarinet plays 'Air and Simple Gifts' followed by a mix of piano, strings, clarinet.
It's here -- THE OATH! Justice Roberts mixes up the words -- how embarrassing for him. Maybe next time he'll bring the cheat sheet. What was he thinking?
Barack gracefully makes his promise, and the Marine band plays.
I think of my father. Wherever his soul is today, he is watching this with tears in his eyes. He was a very proud World War II, Iwo Jima Marine, 5th Division.
President Barack Obama.
Welcome.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Aunt Millie the Strong
Aunt Millie is hanging on. Her strength is unbelieveable.
She has been through more in the past several months than most of us will ever experience in a lifetime: ruptured appendix, endoscopy, discovery of a stomach tumor, aspiration followed by three weeks of a breathing tube, radiation, chemotherapy, and insertion of a feeding tube because her stomach is blocked by the tumor.
Aunt Millie takes it all in stride, fueled by strong faith and a beautiful family: Uncle Joe, their four children, and grandchildren.
She simply shrugs her shoulders when asked how she's doing, as if it's no big thing.
Aunt Millie has a sense of humor. Her children set up a communication system with her, early on when she couldn't speak. They told her to give them the finger when she wants them to leave.
She's a star pupil, waving both fingers at times, as if to emphasize her wish.
She can't eat or drink anything. I can't imagine that.
One afternoon we visited her, and she was sharing a room with an elderly woman. Lunch had been delivered to Aunt Millie by mistake, and she had to tell the aide to take it over to her neighbor.
Aunt Millie went on to tell us that the meal was a hot dog, and how much she enjoyed inhaling the smell of it.
Aunt Millie has good days and bad days. She refused pain medication until just last week, the final days of her radiation and last chemotherapy sessions.
Now she waits, tired, depressed, hurting.
Please, oh please, give her a miracle. Take away her pain, let her enjoy food again, let her thrill her grandchildren, and give us all the finger(s)!
Mostly, let her share her infectious smile.
We love you Aunt Millie.
She has been through more in the past several months than most of us will ever experience in a lifetime: ruptured appendix, endoscopy, discovery of a stomach tumor, aspiration followed by three weeks of a breathing tube, radiation, chemotherapy, and insertion of a feeding tube because her stomach is blocked by the tumor.
Aunt Millie takes it all in stride, fueled by strong faith and a beautiful family: Uncle Joe, their four children, and grandchildren.
She simply shrugs her shoulders when asked how she's doing, as if it's no big thing.
Aunt Millie has a sense of humor. Her children set up a communication system with her, early on when she couldn't speak. They told her to give them the finger when she wants them to leave.
She's a star pupil, waving both fingers at times, as if to emphasize her wish.
She can't eat or drink anything. I can't imagine that.
One afternoon we visited her, and she was sharing a room with an elderly woman. Lunch had been delivered to Aunt Millie by mistake, and she had to tell the aide to take it over to her neighbor.
Aunt Millie went on to tell us that the meal was a hot dog, and how much she enjoyed inhaling the smell of it.
Aunt Millie has good days and bad days. She refused pain medication until just last week, the final days of her radiation and last chemotherapy sessions.
Now she waits, tired, depressed, hurting.
Please, oh please, give her a miracle. Take away her pain, let her enjoy food again, let her thrill her grandchildren, and give us all the finger(s)!
Mostly, let her share her infectious smile.
We love you Aunt Millie.
Poetic Inaugurations
I was shocked today to learn that only 4 poets have ever delivered a poem at a Presidential inauguration. Obama will be our 44th President.
Mathematically, that's one poem for every eleven presidents.
Intellectually, that's a sad statement coming from what is touted as the most powerful country on Earth.
Robert Frost recited at John Kennedy's inauguration in 1961. I was only six years old. Sadly, what I remember most of JFK's administration was two years later, watching his funeral on television, seeing "John John" salute his father's casket as it passed, and little Caroline standing steadfast by her mother.
Maya Angelou recited "On the Pulse of Morning" at Bill Clinton's first inauguration in 1993. I left work for lunch that day to find a restaurant with a television. I watched Maya's graceful delivery of words so stunningly powerful.
Miller Williams spoke at Bill Clinton's second inauguration, 1997. Can't say I remember his poem or his face for that matter. Sorry, Miller!
Elizabeth Alexander will deliver her poem on Tuesday, January 20, 2009. I know her words will be thoughtful, powerful, inspirational.
As she recites, I will again be glued to the screen, remembering Maya's urging to her new President in 1993:
"Lift up your eyes
Upon this day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream."
Hallelujah to the promise of another great President.
Welcome, President Obama. Bless you.
Mathematically, that's one poem for every eleven presidents.
Intellectually, that's a sad statement coming from what is touted as the most powerful country on Earth.
Robert Frost recited at John Kennedy's inauguration in 1961. I was only six years old. Sadly, what I remember most of JFK's administration was two years later, watching his funeral on television, seeing "John John" salute his father's casket as it passed, and little Caroline standing steadfast by her mother.
Maya Angelou recited "On the Pulse of Morning" at Bill Clinton's first inauguration in 1993. I left work for lunch that day to find a restaurant with a television. I watched Maya's graceful delivery of words so stunningly powerful.
Miller Williams spoke at Bill Clinton's second inauguration, 1997. Can't say I remember his poem or his face for that matter. Sorry, Miller!
Elizabeth Alexander will deliver her poem on Tuesday, January 20, 2009. I know her words will be thoughtful, powerful, inspirational.
As she recites, I will again be glued to the screen, remembering Maya's urging to her new President in 1993:
"Lift up your eyes
Upon this day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream."
Hallelujah to the promise of another great President.
Welcome, President Obama. Bless you.
I Want to Be a Bid Coordinator When I Grow Up!
I process technology bids for a living, specifically, formal bids.
Q: What's a formal bid?
A: It's a document issued by an entity that wants to buy something. Examples of entities include state and local governments, elementary and higher education systems, the federal government, publicly-held commercial businesses, etc.
Q: Why can't the entity just go out and buy the item(s) anywhere?
A: Because some entities are legally bound by a specific bid process, a protocol, so to speak, of putting purchases "out to bid".
Q: Huh?
A: Yep, that's what I said when I was offered the job as a Bid Coordinator.
In a nutshell, a bid allows multiple suppliers to submit cost proposals for consideration by the entity.
The entity must follow the formal procedure by issuing an invitation to bid. It then collects and reviews all responses from the bidders, and ultimately awards the bid to one or more suppliers.
Q: How do you get a formal bid?
A: Snail mail, email, downloaded from a website, or handed to me by my boss. Formal bids come across my desk in a variety of different forms: an Invitation to Bid (ITB), a Request for Proposal(RFP), a Request for Quote (RFQ) are among the most common.
Q: What makes it formal? Does it wear a tuxedo?
A: Nope, what makes it formal is that the bid response (proposal) must be delivered to the entity , by a specific date and time of day.
Q: I get sealed envelopes in my mailbox every day at home. What's the big deal?
A: Sealed bids cannot be opened until the specified date and time. Think of it as a sort of "Do Not Open Until Christmas" rule.
Q: You mean, like my rule for not opening my bills?
A: No, meaning that it's illegal to open a sealed bid until the "official" opening date and time advertised when the bid was issued.
Q: Well, how do you know that someone hasn't peeked to see what's inside, like I used to do before Christmas every year when I found my parents' secret "hiding spot" for my presents?
A: Typically, there are witnesses to the event, so that there's no tomfoolery over who wins the bid.
Some entities go so far as to make a party out of a bid opening by inviting the public to view the procedure.
Q: How come I've never been invited to a formal bid opening?
A: (Actually, it's a question to a question): Why would you possibly want to sit around a room with a bunch of stodgy bureaucrats to hear the mind-numbing details of the proposals?
Q: I don't know, maybe they'll serve cocktails and appetizers.
A: Sorry, the imbibing of alcohol, or any other mind-altering drug, anywhere but inside a closet these days, could be misconstrued by the public as questionable behavior.
Just think, if you're a city employee responsible for opening the bids, and you've had "a few too many" by the opening, what's to say that you don't "mistakenly" drop a bid or two in the garbage, or spill red wine on one, making it unreadable?
Q: What's the big deal? You'd just have less proposals to read.
A: Did I forget to say that the tossed proposals were from competitors of your brother-in-law, the supplier that you want to win?
Q: Oh, I'm starting to get it now. It's like an auction. It has to be a fair playing field, so that every body has an equal opportunity to win the bid.
A: Exactly.
Q: Wow, so what made you decide to be a Bid Coordinator?
A: I thought it would be exciting, you know, like getting a sharp-stick poked in my eye.
Q: What's a formal bid?
A: It's a document issued by an entity that wants to buy something. Examples of entities include state and local governments, elementary and higher education systems, the federal government, publicly-held commercial businesses, etc.
Q: Why can't the entity just go out and buy the item(s) anywhere?
A: Because some entities are legally bound by a specific bid process, a protocol, so to speak, of putting purchases "out to bid".
Q: Huh?
A: Yep, that's what I said when I was offered the job as a Bid Coordinator.
In a nutshell, a bid allows multiple suppliers to submit cost proposals for consideration by the entity.
The entity must follow the formal procedure by issuing an invitation to bid. It then collects and reviews all responses from the bidders, and ultimately awards the bid to one or more suppliers.
Q: How do you get a formal bid?
A: Snail mail, email, downloaded from a website, or handed to me by my boss. Formal bids come across my desk in a variety of different forms: an Invitation to Bid (ITB), a Request for Proposal(RFP), a Request for Quote (RFQ) are among the most common.
Q: What makes it formal? Does it wear a tuxedo?
A: Nope, what makes it formal is that the bid response (proposal) must be delivered to the entity , by a specific date and time of day.
Q: I get sealed envelopes in my mailbox every day at home. What's the big deal?
A: Sealed bids cannot be opened until the specified date and time. Think of it as a sort of "Do Not Open Until Christmas" rule.
Q: You mean, like my rule for not opening my bills?
A: No, meaning that it's illegal to open a sealed bid until the "official" opening date and time advertised when the bid was issued.
Q: Well, how do you know that someone hasn't peeked to see what's inside, like I used to do before Christmas every year when I found my parents' secret "hiding spot" for my presents?
A: Typically, there are witnesses to the event, so that there's no tomfoolery over who wins the bid.
Some entities go so far as to make a party out of a bid opening by inviting the public to view the procedure.
Q: How come I've never been invited to a formal bid opening?
A: (Actually, it's a question to a question): Why would you possibly want to sit around a room with a bunch of stodgy bureaucrats to hear the mind-numbing details of the proposals?
Q: I don't know, maybe they'll serve cocktails and appetizers.
A: Sorry, the imbibing of alcohol, or any other mind-altering drug, anywhere but inside a closet these days, could be misconstrued by the public as questionable behavior.
Just think, if you're a city employee responsible for opening the bids, and you've had "a few too many" by the opening, what's to say that you don't "mistakenly" drop a bid or two in the garbage, or spill red wine on one, making it unreadable?
Q: What's the big deal? You'd just have less proposals to read.
A: Did I forget to say that the tossed proposals were from competitors of your brother-in-law, the supplier that you want to win?
Q: Oh, I'm starting to get it now. It's like an auction. It has to be a fair playing field, so that every body has an equal opportunity to win the bid.
A: Exactly.
Q: Wow, so what made you decide to be a Bid Coordinator?
A: I thought it would be exciting, you know, like getting a sharp-stick poked in my eye.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Two Whos Do I Make the Check Out? or Dodes Hears A Who
Warning: This is a lengthy post. Might want to get a cup of coffee, or even dinner, before committing.
There are a handful of joyful moments in my life that have driven me to tears: getting my first teaching job, seeing fall foliage in Vermont, giving birth to my daughter, and listening to Johnny Mathis sing "O Holy Night," while sharing a warm bath with her at four months old.
Tonight, I enjoyed another magic moment, on the scale of Roy Orbison singing "This Magic Moment," to the same effect.
Flicking through the channels, I happened upon The Kennedy Center Honors, and my finger hovered over the remote control button as I mulled over a decision to keep on clicking.
I was pleasantly surprised to see Roger Daltry and Pete Townsend sitting among the other 4 honorees, high up in the mezzanine, next to George and Laura Bush. Ok, scratch that last part about the Bushes, let's not ruin the flow here.
After a humorous monologue by Jack Black, about his being The Who's biggest fan and calling them gods, devils, angels, or not, four contemporary artists each sang a Who number.
During the last performance, about half-way through, a curtain rose above the orchestra, and an army of New York City firemen and policemen belted out the chorus of "Baba O'Riley" directly toward the two seasoned rockers who wrote it. Daltry and Townsend were visibly moved.
Had I not seen the broadcast of "The Concert for New York," performed by Roger and Pete shortly after September 11, 2001, I might not have been so emotional. At that concert, Daltry and Townsend, in true form, performed for a HUGE audience of NYC fireman and policemen. It was the first opportunity for NYC to smile and enjoy themselves since those dark September days. And, enjoy themselves they did, singing, dancing, merrymaking.
So, when I saw the curtain go up tonight, and my brain-delay caught up with my eyes and ears, I burst out crying. I relished every note, every movement, and every emotion, but I didn't think to record it (by pressing two remote buttons). Sigh.
BUT, thanks to YouTube I can see it again and again.
I thought it would be a great blog entry -- another diatribe on what an emotional nutcake I can be.
As I thought about what to write, I remembered suddenly that at the end of October, this year, 2008, I attended my very first Who concert with a co-worker, Betsey.
Quite the coincidence, eh?
I hadn't planned to buy the tickets, I didn't even know they were still around or performing together.
I just received an email from Live Nation, delivered to me at work one day back in August.
I pondered it, but hesitated to spend the money. Given the age of the performers, though, and an idea of what old rockers sounded like--think Rolling Stones in their Steel Wheel tour--I decided that it was now-or-never-time to see The Who live (in both senses of the word).
(I, on the other hand, haven't aged one minute since I first heard The Who in an unnamed, previous decade, but I digress.)
I asked Betsey if she wanted to go and she accepted without hesitation. bless her spirit.
We drove an hour to an Indian-reservation-turned-casino, and took our seats in the nosebleed section of a medium-sized, indoor arena.
We expected nothing beyond a decent performance from The Who--certainly not as good as the gigs of their younger years.
But, Daltry and Townsend turned out a show nothing short of sensational. They played for two hours, no break.
Their voices and stamina held up amazingly, their energy was intense, and they had Betsey and me shouting lyrics and acting like two crazy ladies, minus the acting.
From the first word out of Daltry's gorgeous mouth, coupled with impish Townsend's windmill, their two instruments, voice and guitar, reached down to my toes like a great glass of smooth, red cabernet.
Wow, there's some cheesy prose for ya.
Simply said, The Who's music inspired me, wowed me, and possessed me. They've had that effect on me since the 70s, and I happily remain their slave, hoping never to be released.
Two Who-related performances, happenstance, that reached my core, and woke me up.
Bravo!
There are a handful of joyful moments in my life that have driven me to tears: getting my first teaching job, seeing fall foliage in Vermont, giving birth to my daughter, and listening to Johnny Mathis sing "O Holy Night," while sharing a warm bath with her at four months old.
Tonight, I enjoyed another magic moment, on the scale of Roy Orbison singing "This Magic Moment," to the same effect.
Flicking through the channels, I happened upon The Kennedy Center Honors, and my finger hovered over the remote control button as I mulled over a decision to keep on clicking.
I was pleasantly surprised to see Roger Daltry and Pete Townsend sitting among the other 4 honorees, high up in the mezzanine, next to George and Laura Bush. Ok, scratch that last part about the Bushes, let's not ruin the flow here.
After a humorous monologue by Jack Black, about his being The Who's biggest fan and calling them gods, devils, angels, or not, four contemporary artists each sang a Who number.
During the last performance, about half-way through, a curtain rose above the orchestra, and an army of New York City firemen and policemen belted out the chorus of "Baba O'Riley" directly toward the two seasoned rockers who wrote it. Daltry and Townsend were visibly moved.
Had I not seen the broadcast of "The Concert for New York," performed by Roger and Pete shortly after September 11, 2001, I might not have been so emotional. At that concert, Daltry and Townsend, in true form, performed for a HUGE audience of NYC fireman and policemen. It was the first opportunity for NYC to smile and enjoy themselves since those dark September days. And, enjoy themselves they did, singing, dancing, merrymaking.
So, when I saw the curtain go up tonight, and my brain-delay caught up with my eyes and ears, I burst out crying. I relished every note, every movement, and every emotion, but I didn't think to record it (by pressing two remote buttons). Sigh.
BUT, thanks to YouTube I can see it again and again.
I thought it would be a great blog entry -- another diatribe on what an emotional nutcake I can be.
As I thought about what to write, I remembered suddenly that at the end of October, this year, 2008, I attended my very first Who concert with a co-worker, Betsey.
Quite the coincidence, eh?
I hadn't planned to buy the tickets, I didn't even know they were still around or performing together.
I just received an email from Live Nation, delivered to me at work one day back in August.
I pondered it, but hesitated to spend the money. Given the age of the performers, though, and an idea of what old rockers sounded like--think Rolling Stones in their Steel Wheel tour--I decided that it was now-or-never-time to see The Who live (in both senses of the word).
(I, on the other hand, haven't aged one minute since I first heard The Who in an unnamed, previous decade, but I digress.)
I asked Betsey if she wanted to go and she accepted without hesitation. bless her spirit.
We drove an hour to an Indian-reservation-turned-casino, and took our seats in the nosebleed section of a medium-sized, indoor arena.
We expected nothing beyond a decent performance from The Who--certainly not as good as the gigs of their younger years.
But, Daltry and Townsend turned out a show nothing short of sensational. They played for two hours, no break.
Their voices and stamina held up amazingly, their energy was intense, and they had Betsey and me shouting lyrics and acting like two crazy ladies, minus the acting.
From the first word out of Daltry's gorgeous mouth, coupled with impish Townsend's windmill, their two instruments, voice and guitar, reached down to my toes like a great glass of smooth, red cabernet.
Wow, there's some cheesy prose for ya.
Simply said, The Who's music inspired me, wowed me, and possessed me. They've had that effect on me since the 70s, and I happily remain their slave, hoping never to be released.
Two Who-related performances, happenstance, that reached my core, and woke me up.
Bravo!
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Can we have Thanksgiving earlier next year?
Did anyone notice that we had one less weekend between Thanksgiving and Christmas in 2008?
Talk about cramming 10 lbs of #^&* into a 5 lb bag!
Thanksgiving came and went, and it left me depressed for a variety of reasons: mother/daughter strife, prospect of waking up alone Xmas a.m. for the second consecutive year, and money issues.
I thought seriously about not having my annual holiday party because I simply wasn't motivated. Over the next week or so, I voiced my thoughts and concerns to a couple of close friends, and they all encouraged me to go for it.
I said, "F^@* it." and decided the party would be the only remedy for my malaise.
And so, on a snowy evening, when the roads weren't the best, 30 people still showed up at my house, and life began to look brighter.
Thank you 30 people for the pick-me-up, the pot luck and bottle luck, and especially for the non-perishable food items.
Your good will and generosity heartened me as I dropped off three boxes of canned and dry goods, paper items, and toiletries to the local shelter.
The food drive will be an integral part of my holiday party going forward.
And, the 30 people, plus those that could not make it this year, will forever be an integral part of my life
You're the best!!!!
Talk about cramming 10 lbs of #^&* into a 5 lb bag!
Thanksgiving came and went, and it left me depressed for a variety of reasons: mother/daughter strife, prospect of waking up alone Xmas a.m. for the second consecutive year, and money issues.
I thought seriously about not having my annual holiday party because I simply wasn't motivated. Over the next week or so, I voiced my thoughts and concerns to a couple of close friends, and they all encouraged me to go for it.
I said, "F^@* it." and decided the party would be the only remedy for my malaise.
And so, on a snowy evening, when the roads weren't the best, 30 people still showed up at my house, and life began to look brighter.
Thank you 30 people for the pick-me-up, the pot luck and bottle luck, and especially for the non-perishable food items.
Your good will and generosity heartened me as I dropped off three boxes of canned and dry goods, paper items, and toiletries to the local shelter.
The food drive will be an integral part of my holiday party going forward.
And, the 30 people, plus those that could not make it this year, will forever be an integral part of my life
You're the best!!!!
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Going to Hell in a Handbasket
In my previous post about the meteor, I profered, "We are all going to hell in a handbasket." I have no idea how I learned this phrase.
In any case, I meant it as defined in #1 below, specifically, "... a situation headed for disaster without effort."
According to Wikipedia, there are several possible origins of the phrase:
"1."Going to Hell in a handbasket" or "Going to hell in a handcart" is an English alliterative phrase of unclear origin, which describes a situation headed for disaster without effort or in great haste.
2. "There has been some speculation that the phrases may be related, with "to Hell in a handbasket" perhaps being a mocking reference to the Guillotine which often used a lined basket to catch the severed head." (Ouch! At least it was a soft landing.)
And this third definition is difficult for me to even consider as true:
3. "Its first use recorded in the Oxford English Dictionary in the 1860s is in a historical work with the quote: "Thousands of our best men were prisoners in Camp Douglas, and if once at liberty would ‘send abolitionists to hell in a hand basket.'"
Now, who the heck determined its "first use" and how was it done? Did the researcher(s) read every word that existed in the entire world, and make a mental note about all of them? Wow, that must have been a VERY old person by the time they were done reading, not to mention a powerfully well-read one.
With all the blogs around today, I imagine their head would explode searching for "first" uses of phrases.
Ya think?
In any case, I meant it as defined in #1 below, specifically, "... a situation headed for disaster without effort."
According to Wikipedia, there are several possible origins of the phrase:
"1."Going to Hell in a handbasket" or "Going to hell in a handcart" is an English alliterative phrase of unclear origin, which describes a situation headed for disaster without effort or in great haste.
2. "There has been some speculation that the phrases may be related, with "to Hell in a handbasket" perhaps being a mocking reference to the Guillotine which often used a lined basket to catch the severed head." (Ouch! At least it was a soft landing.)
And this third definition is difficult for me to even consider as true:
3. "Its first use recorded in the Oxford English Dictionary in the 1860s is in a historical work with the quote: "Thousands of our best men were prisoners in Camp Douglas, and if once at liberty would ‘send abolitionists to hell in a hand basket.'"
Now, who the heck determined its "first use" and how was it done? Did the researcher(s) read every word that existed in the entire world, and make a mental note about all of them? Wow, that must have been a VERY old person by the time they were done reading, not to mention a powerfully well-read one.
With all the blogs around today, I imagine their head would explode searching for "first" uses of phrases.
Ya think?
Saturday, November 29, 2008
The Road and the Meteor
This morning I finished reading "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy, and just now I viewed the video of the meteor that fell to the earth in Calgary Canada the other night.
Had the asteroid hit the earth in a populated area, the resulting carnage and devastation might have matched that of the post-apocalyptic world described in the book.
Very disturbing.
"We are all going to hell in a hand basket" comes to my mind. Not sure about the origin of that saying, but I'll be looking it up.
Had the asteroid hit the earth in a populated area, the resulting carnage and devastation might have matched that of the post-apocalyptic world described in the book.
Very disturbing.
"We are all going to hell in a hand basket" comes to my mind. Not sure about the origin of that saying, but I'll be looking it up.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Grandma Irene's coffee in seven easy steps
I was reminded of my grandmother's coffee routine recently when having a conversation about "the old days" (circa 'anything before 1960')
She lived in a second-floor apartment that had no central heat and linoleum-covered floors.
I stayed at Gram's house frequently on weekends and summer days. She was an early riser, and I remember always waking up around 6:30 a.m. to the delicious smell of coffee percolating.
The old-fashioned, cast-iron stove loomed large in Gram's kitchen. (When she wasn't looking, my cousins and I liked to watch our spit dance across the top of the griddle - very amusing.)
Once the coffee was finished, Gram's routine went like this:
1. For each grandkid, pour a glass of milk in a jelly jar and add a small amount of coffee. We LOVED the coffee milk with a little sugar and a fresh jelly donut.
Once the grandkids were occupied, she set about her own coffee.
2. Place an empty coffee cup inside a soup bowl
3. Fill the cup with fresh, hot coffee, leaving a little room for cream
4. Top the coffee with cream until it overflows into the bowl
5. Pour the coffee from the mug into the bowl
6. Lose the cup
7. Drink the coffee out of the bowl
Why?
The coffee cooled more quickly in the bowl than in the cup.
Genius
She lived in a second-floor apartment that had no central heat and linoleum-covered floors.
I stayed at Gram's house frequently on weekends and summer days. She was an early riser, and I remember always waking up around 6:30 a.m. to the delicious smell of coffee percolating.
The old-fashioned, cast-iron stove loomed large in Gram's kitchen. (When she wasn't looking, my cousins and I liked to watch our spit dance across the top of the griddle - very amusing.)
Once the coffee was finished, Gram's routine went like this:
1. For each grandkid, pour a glass of milk in a jelly jar and add a small amount of coffee. We LOVED the coffee milk with a little sugar and a fresh jelly donut.
Once the grandkids were occupied, she set about her own coffee.
2. Place an empty coffee cup inside a soup bowl
3. Fill the cup with fresh, hot coffee, leaving a little room for cream
4. Top the coffee with cream until it overflows into the bowl
5. Pour the coffee from the mug into the bowl
6. Lose the cup
7. Drink the coffee out of the bowl
Why?
The coffee cooled more quickly in the bowl than in the cup.
Genius
Friday, November 21, 2008
Aunt Millie
Aunt Millie is in the hospital. My father's sister, the last of my blood-related aunts and uncles. She's 79, and fighting stomach cancer.
My cousins and I gathered around her bed last night in her new digs on the oncology floor.
She had just come down from the medical ICU, where she spent 3 weeks with a breathing tube taped to her mouth.
I saw her last week with the tube, and thought she would not make it. I saw her last night without the tube, and with her family, and she was beautiful.
She knows her cancer is inoperable, but as the new nurse told her, she's seen miracles and there's no reason why it can't happen to her.
Pray for Aunt Millie.
My cousins and I gathered around her bed last night in her new digs on the oncology floor.
She had just come down from the medical ICU, where she spent 3 weeks with a breathing tube taped to her mouth.
I saw her last week with the tube, and thought she would not make it. I saw her last night without the tube, and with her family, and she was beautiful.
She knows her cancer is inoperable, but as the new nurse told her, she's seen miracles and there's no reason why it can't happen to her.
Pray for Aunt Millie.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Wallet-Challenged
How many times have you ever lost your wallet and had to cancel all your credit cards?
I've stopped counting, but if I had to guess, it might be a double-digit number.
I prefer to think of the multiple losses as my Credit Card Fraud Prevention Strategy (CCFPS). My account numbers change so frequently that the odds of a successful charge by a thief are practically nil.
I lost my wallet Halloween night. The next morning, the conversation with the AmEx customer service agent went something like this:
Her: "What are the last four digits of your card?"
Me: "I don't know, if I had my card I could tell you!"
Her: "No problem, I'll look it up. I see two accounts -- do you remember your last purchase on the card that you lost?"
Me: "No, I don't, but there should only be one account. Not sure why you're showing two."
Her: "Oh, I see now, the other one was closed in 2007 when you reported a lost card."
Of course, less than an hour later, I figured out where I lost the wallet. It was fully intact, including the $2 cash that was in it, when I retrieved it from bar #2 .
Handy Tip: Always start a tab at a bar by giving your debit card to the bartender. That way, if you lose your wallet before cashing out, you at least have the debit card to use the next day.
Places I've found or retrieved my wallet: 1) under my car in the driveway: 2) in my car on the floor next to the passenger's side door (that's a great hiding spot for cell phones, wallets, and eyeglass cases); 3) under my sofa where the cat pushed it so far back that I didn't see it when I leaned down to look there the first time; 4) in my office drawer at work; 5) in the pocketbook I last used before I switched to another pocketbook; 6) at the Police Department from a kind officer that got it from the honest person who found it on the ground.
Next up: Places that I've found my jewelry
I've stopped counting, but if I had to guess, it might be a double-digit number.
I prefer to think of the multiple losses as my Credit Card Fraud Prevention Strategy (CCFPS). My account numbers change so frequently that the odds of a successful charge by a thief are practically nil.
I lost my wallet Halloween night. The next morning, the conversation with the AmEx customer service agent went something like this:
Her: "What are the last four digits of your card?"
Me: "I don't know, if I had my card I could tell you!"
Her: "No problem, I'll look it up. I see two accounts -- do you remember your last purchase on the card that you lost?"
Me: "No, I don't, but there should only be one account. Not sure why you're showing two."
Her: "Oh, I see now, the other one was closed in 2007 when you reported a lost card."
Of course, less than an hour later, I figured out where I lost the wallet. It was fully intact, including the $2 cash that was in it, when I retrieved it from bar #2 .
Handy Tip: Always start a tab at a bar by giving your debit card to the bartender. That way, if you lose your wallet before cashing out, you at least have the debit card to use the next day.
Places I've found or retrieved my wallet: 1) under my car in the driveway: 2) in my car on the floor next to the passenger's side door (that's a great hiding spot for cell phones, wallets, and eyeglass cases); 3) under my sofa where the cat pushed it so far back that I didn't see it when I leaned down to look there the first time; 4) in my office drawer at work; 5) in the pocketbook I last used before I switched to another pocketbook; 6) at the Police Department from a kind officer that got it from the honest person who found it on the ground.
Next up: Places that I've found my jewelry
Friday, November 7, 2008
Sleep patterns
My mom used to fall asleep on the couch at night while watching TV, and then come upstairs to bed in the middle of the night.
When I fell asleep on the couch at night, she used to wake me up and say "Get up and go to sleep."
If I were George Carlin, I would analyze the oddity of that statement during a comedy routine -- "So, am I getting up or going to sleep?"
If my mother had a computer back in the day, I imagine she'd be writing at 5:50 a.m. too, not having gone to sleep yet.
When I fell asleep on the couch at night, she used to wake me up and say "Get up and go to sleep."
If I were George Carlin, I would analyze the oddity of that statement during a comedy routine -- "So, am I getting up or going to sleep?"
If my mother had a computer back in the day, I imagine she'd be writing at 5:50 a.m. too, not having gone to sleep yet.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
O Happy Day -- Solid like Barack!
Funny how those red states match the same shape as the Bible belt.
What's up with that?
What's up with that?
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Obama and Joe
O and J. Barack and Biden.
Hope and experience in the same sentence. What a concept.
J and S. McCain and Palin.
POW and beauty queen. I don't know, strikes me as another "bring it on" mentality, doubled. Shoot first, and act diplomatic later.
Michael Palin would have been FAR more acceptable than Sarah as a candidate.
Hope and experience in the same sentence. What a concept.
J and S. McCain and Palin.
POW and beauty queen. I don't know, strikes me as another "bring it on" mentality, doubled. Shoot first, and act diplomatic later.
Michael Palin would have been FAR more acceptable than Sarah as a candidate.
R.I.P D.S.T
Sunday, daylight savings time is over and done with.
It will be light when I wake up at 6:15 a.m., and maybe motivate me to get my sorry ass out of bed to take a morning walk before work.
Kathy, are you listening?
It will be light when I wake up at 6:15 a.m., and maybe motivate me to get my sorry ass out of bed to take a morning walk before work.
Kathy, are you listening?
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Eulogy Girl
I was watching Jeopardy tonight and one of the answers was "what is a eulogy?"
A contestant answered it incorrectly by stating "elegy."
I've written several eulogies over the past 10 years, and I've become comfortable speaking them.
People deserve eulogies given by their relatives or friends. It's so much more personal than the standard script often delivered by clergy.
I'm especially offended when a clergy person speaks about someone they've never met.
That happened at my father's service when the funeral director failed to ask me in advance about a eulogy, and the priest denied the ad hoc request.
I seethed with anger throughout the rest of the service, wishing I could muster up the courage to push the priest aside from the podium and deliver my thoughts about Dad anyway.
It was a well-deserved eulogy, simply written by a daughter who loved her father.
I ended up giving Dad's eulogy at the luncheon reception after the service. When my aunt Millie heard what happened in church, she suggested that I do it right there on the spot.
Bless her heart, and damn that priest.
Public speaking is hard to do at first, but it gets easier with practice, especially when speaking about a loved one.
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1) - Cite This Source
A contestant answered it incorrectly by stating "elegy."
eu⋅lo⋅gy [yoo-luh-jee] noun, plural -gies
| 1. | a speech or writing in praise of a person or thing, esp. a set oration in honor of a deceased person. |
| 2. | high praise or commendation. |
I've written several eulogies over the past 10 years, and I've become comfortable speaking them.
People deserve eulogies given by their relatives or friends. It's so much more personal than the standard script often delivered by clergy.
I'm especially offended when a clergy person speaks about someone they've never met.
That happened at my father's service when the funeral director failed to ask me in advance about a eulogy, and the priest denied the ad hoc request.
I seethed with anger throughout the rest of the service, wishing I could muster up the courage to push the priest aside from the podium and deliver my thoughts about Dad anyway.
It was a well-deserved eulogy, simply written by a daughter who loved her father.
I ended up giving Dad's eulogy at the luncheon reception after the service. When my aunt Millie heard what happened in church, she suggested that I do it right there on the spot.
Bless her heart, and damn that priest.
Public speaking is hard to do at first, but it gets easier with practice, especially when speaking about a loved one.
Broadcast News aka Cry Me a River
There are a couple of scenes in the movie Broadcast News in which Holly Hunter lets off steam every time she's emotionally overwhelmed.
She goes off alone and bursts into tears for a brief period, less than a minute.
Then she composes herself and re-enters the present.
I think I was the prototype for that character, except, sometimes, I don't have the control to save it until I'm alone.
When I am feeling like that, all it takes is someone saying to me, "What's wrong?"
The brief tears are an emotional "boiling over" like a pan of water on High.
Once it occurs, I automatically switch to Low and simmer. I feel totally relieved.
It used to be embarrassing, though I'm used to it now. I don't think I've had a boss, friend, or relative who hasn't seen me cry like that.
If I could turn the angry tears into a well-thought-out argument, I'd probably be further along in my career.
She goes off alone and bursts into tears for a brief period, less than a minute.
Then she composes herself and re-enters the present.
I think I was the prototype for that character, except, sometimes, I don't have the control to save it until I'm alone.
When I am feeling like that, all it takes is someone saying to me, "What's wrong?"
The brief tears are an emotional "boiling over" like a pan of water on High.
Once it occurs, I automatically switch to Low and simmer. I feel totally relieved.
It used to be embarrassing, though I'm used to it now. I don't think I've had a boss, friend, or relative who hasn't seen me cry like that.
If I could turn the angry tears into a well-thought-out argument, I'd probably be further along in my career.
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