CELEBRATING UNIQUENESS

Dear Everyone--

I believe I read somewhere that we (all of us) should embrace those things that make us unique.  I hope I read that and didn't just make it up.  In any event, I decided yesterday afternoon to celebrate my uniqueness--that of being a Late Adopter, or someone who waits until the latest technology has run its course and then buys in.  In honor of being a Late Adopter, I bought my first iPhone ever and it, of course, is a 5 which, after September 10th, will draw pitying stares from some and hoots of derision from others, but I don't care.  I'm proud of being a Late Adopter...it's who I am, and this little iPhone, one of the few left in T-Mobile's back room, needed a friend.

It just struck me this minute, that I walked directly from T-Mobile to Dillards to purchase two pair of clip earrings.  Perhaps technology is not the only thing that marks me as a Late Adopter.

Since the purchase of my sweet iPhone 5 I have learned that we worry much too much about evil strangers grabbing our IDs or Passwords and running amok in our name.  Both Apple and Google are quite vigilant regarding their own territories.  I didn't know that until yesterday when, still at T-Mobile--I tried, unsuccessfully, to sign into iCloud in order to facilitate the transfer of information or whatever reason it was that required reaching into the cloud.  Having failed that test, I turned to Google which, much to my embarrassment, reacted in exactly the same way.  I was desperately typing/back-spacing, typing/backspacing as I tried to match these arthritic fingers with the iPhone's miniscule (but cute) virtual keyboard.  Even though I had spent a portion of the morning with both of them, neither Apple nor Google would admit to ever having heard of me.

Early this morning, in a state of some frustration, I fired up my computer to check e-mails as they sure weren't on that new iPhone.  Google was first:  "We prevented a sign-in attempt in case this was a Hijacker trying to access your account."  They went on to give me a web address in order to try to resolve the issue if it was me instead of a Hijacker.  "Was it you?" they coyly asked.  Yes, damn you, it was me!

Apple was next:  "Your Apple ID was used to sign into iCloud on iPhone 5..."  Well, thank heavens for that.  I was afraid I'd gone over the edge and forgotten the very best password I'd ever come up with.  Again, they instructed, if it wasn't me, simply change my password; if it was me, go to the included web address and work through the instructions.  Despite Apple's reputation of being so "intuitive" doesn't that seem counter-intuitive?  Why am I being punished with a page of instructions? 

Suddenly, Facebook appeared: "We temporarily locked your account until you could review this recent log-in from a mobile device you have never used before."  The Facebook Security Team quite politely included a web-site to visit in order to unlock Facebook again, apparently assuming I'm really a trustworthy person.  Actually, other than the photos of family, I'm singularly unimpressed with Facebook and just may keep it locked up forever.  But, thanks anyway.

Now, as to the clip earring situation.  I've never found a pair that didn't hurt after an hour or so, but pierced ears were such a catastrophe, that's just the way it has to be.

Have a great weekend!
Margie

OF PIN BALL, DUCKS, AND HUNGRY KOI

I have taken up a new project.  It's called Lumosity and you've probably seen or heard it advertised.  Lumosity presents a number of brain games--just for you--in its efforts to help you become smarter, brighter, and less likely to leave your leftovers box on the table when you exit the restaurant.  I signed up in April for the free version--slightly less detailed analysis and my "adaptive training algorithms" are probably less personalized--but I've been a daily participant ever since.  I can actually feel my brain growing with new and fresh neurons as synapses are grabbing hold of their proper synapses partners and reveling in their neuroplasticity.  Neuroplasticity!  It makes you feel GOOD when it's working!

Along with 35 or 25 or 40 million other members (depending on which part of the web-site you're reading) I am a small cog in the gigantic Human Cognition Project--or, I hope I am.  I'd like to believe that.  Actually, I'm rather counting on it. 

As I begin today's session, feeding slippery, constantly swimming Koi in their little pond, I'm sure each mouse click is being recorded somewhere for analysis.  Today I fed 32 Koi out of 35, which means I tried to feed three of them twice.  That is not a good thing and Lumosity deducts points for feeding a Koi twice.  They are demonstrating that I'm probably missing a neuron or two as I lose track of  three little fish or, as I prefer to believe, my peripheral vision simply stinks.

In my second game, I'm finding myself looking at a group of five ducks flying in tight formation, heading either North, South, East or West.  My job, should I choose to accept it, is to indicate which direction the center duck is flying by pushing the appropriate arrow key.   Be aware that the center duck, in contrast to my understanding of proper duck formation rules, may or may not be flying in a totally different direction from the other four ducks.  He has his own GPS system.  Also, be aware, speed counts.  The faster you push those arrow keys, the more points you will rack up--assuming, of course, your choices are correct.  I'm OK with the ducks.

Finally, this morning, my session ended with the damned Pin Ball Machine.  When I began working with Lumosity in April, I was quite taken with my Pin Ball skills.  I, quickly and accurately, determined which way the flapper thing would send the ball and I was point for point on target.  It was a great day!  I was a proud lady.  Then, as the weeks passed and the damned Pin Ball Board grew in physical size, increased the number of flapper things, and shortened dramatically the flash of time given to memorize the placement and direction of the flappers, it began to eat my lunch session after session.  It ate my lunch again this morning.  My Pin Ball BPI (Brain Performance Index) was five points lower than after my last Pin Ball episode.  I didn't produce the number of points to even qualify for one of my top five performances although  I received one extra point (something of a back-handed compliment) simply for having the tenacity to finish the game. 

When the session ended and I clicked to the final standings, much to my surprise, my overall BPI (did I mention, that means Brain Performance Index) had increased slightly over yesterday's number.  Lumosity does not do that to make you feel good.  I went two weeks with a  consistently decreasing BPI last month, but I kept on keeping on, and finally broke out of my slump.  I do love Lumosity and believe my brain is functioning better because of it!  Or, as BC is fond of saying, "I'll always think it should be."  Lumosity must offer a hundred different games, so each day is a surprise.  I have my favorites as well as those I hate.  However, I try equally hard on all of them and I would tell you what my BPI is, except it's higher than BC's and I don't want to make him feel badly, because he is a sweetie.  He's played a shorter length of time than I have but, frankly, God help him if he pulls ahead...

TRENDY, MOM, TRENDY

Since I posted my little piece on my treasured 1936 Royal Deluxe, typewriters have popped up everywhere.  For example, my very cool sister in Louisville reported that a friend of hers (an antiques guru) mentioned that typewriters are a very hot commodity right now. 

Within a few days of that comment, my cousin Barbara in Kansas City (Barbara grew up with the massive typewriter I so loved as a child) sent a clipping from The New York Times in which Tom Hanks wrote on his love affair with the hundreds of vintage typewriters he has collected over the years.  By the way, Tom uses his typewriters nearly every day.  He even types his thank-you notes.  I had thought typing thank-you notes was gauche, but if Tom does it, I'm on board.

Finally, the oft-quoted Wall Street Journal ran an article last week detailing how a few typewriter manufacturers still eke out a living producing typewriters for a scattering of governmental entities that require certain forms be handwritten or typed.  Apparently, they don't lend themselves well to computer programming or PDF or some such nonsense. Items mentioned were Search Warrants in various locales, Marriage Licenses in Jersey City, and Death Certificates in West Virginia.  It's a niche product. 

But, in an even niche-ier way, the Texas Prison System is using typewriters within its prisons that are transparent.  A manufacturer designed a transparent manual typewriter specifically for prisoners who might be writing The Great American Novel or, more likely, working on their law degrees.  Those $250.00 transparent typewriters pretty much negate the contraband issue.

I announced to my socially savvy children that considering the sudden popularity of typewriters after my post, I thought I might be trending.  It was extremely exciting to be trending at my age.  Sadly, they brought to my attention that even though I was a relatively trendy grandmother, it was the typewriters that were trending, not me. 

A SIMPLE SUNDAY MORNING

We don't wear dresses very often in our Age Restricted Community.  We've become a slacks and capri pants sort of population.  Comfort is our "later in life" mantra.  Most of us did the girdle, hose and high heel thing for 40 or so years, and we're done!

However, Sunday mornings present a conundrum.   Our Lutheran congregation, a fairly relaxed group of refugee Minnesotans, still has a tendency to dress, just ever so slightly, for church services.  That means I must spend Sunday mornings in our closet shoving hangers this way and that until I come across something I think is both appropriate, and hasn't already been worn three times in the past month.  Last Sunday I spied the dress BC bought for me last year.  It sports a "Lauren" label, which makes it unique in my closet and it's very cute, so I decided to wear it.  It's a red knit little number...boat neck, three-quarter length sleeves (the better to hide the hideous effect advancing age has on the upper arms), and just manages to skim the fat deposits growing every so slowly and steadily around my mid-section.

Much to my pleasure, not to mention relief, it still fit and I put the finishing touches on my face and hair.  I found earrings and bracelets and sashayed to the full length mirror to check my cuteness.  Whoa!  Yes, the dress fits, but it's a clingy number.  In fact, it's generating additional static with every breath.  We have a problem and BC is ready to walk out the door.  I need a slip.

Now, along with my Age Restricted friends, I wore a slip everyday from the first morning of Kindergarten to the last sip of wine at my retirement party.  I don't do that anymore, but a slip is definitely needed under this obscene and obnoxious dress that's delineating my thighs.  I own three slips...all of which, I learn, are much longer than my red dress.  I'm choosing the black half slip.  Let's pull it up a bit and fold the waistband over a few times.  Problem solved...no, wait, it's not.  The waistband of my aging slip has lost its elasticity (God knows I know what that's like), and three inches of black lace are hanging out under my pricy Ralph Lauren hem.

I'm in trouble.  However, since spending a few minutes everyday exercising my brain on Lumosity, I've become a critical thinker.  I will pull this slip up over my bra, which will be better for the static cling anyway, and my problem will be solved.  Excellent critical thinking, but essentially flawed because of the waistband elasticity situation.  Safety pins are in order. 

I'm now standing in my bathroom safety pinning a black half slip to my bra...to the front of my bra, one pin per cup.  I pull my dress back down.  The slip stays attached to the bra, the two safety pins located front and center (so to speak) don't seem to show...too much...and we're off to divine worship.

Whew...all is going very well.  We're sitting in our usual seats, uncomfortably close to the front (BC loves to be near the action), the slip is holding but I am suddenly frozen with fear.  What if I drop over in a dead faint in the middle of the service?!?  In this neighborhood, that is not an uncommon event.  Some good Christian congregant is sure to run for the AED (Automated External Defribrillator) and electrocute himself, as well as me, when he connects with the safety pins as he turns on the juice.  We would both light up like the Holy Spirit himself had suddenly appeared and my darkest secret would become fodder for cheap funeral jokes.

It was a long Sunday service.          

FRIENDS WITH WORDS

I don't think I'm the last person to take up "Words with Friends", but I'm probably close.  I knew of the game, having been aware that Alec Baldwin was unceremoniously dumped off a flight when he refused to turn off his cell phone in the midst of a hotly contested game, thus delaying the takeoff.  Of course, likable scoundrel that he is, Alec proceeded to make a few million dollars from the whole affair without us ever knowing if he won or lost.  He probably depends a lot on strategy would be my guess.

When we were in the Midwest a few weeks ago, I weakened, my daughter loaded the program on my iPad, outlined the bare basics, and I was ready to spell.  There was a time, years ago, when I was a fairly decent Scrabble challenger.  Although, in retrospect, it was when my children were relatively small and not as attuned to Olde English words or spellings as I.  I must have been merciless in those days, going after children.  I do feel badly about that now. 

Today, I'm involved in seven games.  Two daughters, two granddaughters, one son-in-law, one daughter-in-law, and Gramie Lynn, my daughter-in-law's mom, are my opponents.  I mention Gramie by name, because if she ever turns Pro, I want you to know I knew her when.  Gramie Lynn is a formidable opponent, both in vocabulary and in strategy.  She has wiped me off the board every time we've played.  She could do it in 30 minutes or less if I were only quicker with my responses to her entries.  On this week's Leader Board (Gramie, of course being in first place), I'm coming in at 11th with 73 points.  Number 12, my son-in-law (sporting 8 points) is  lagging behind me only because he's in Singapore this week and too frugal to pop for wireless service.

But things are about to change drastically in this contest.  I have discovered www.scrabblefinder.com and I'm not ashamed to use it.  I'm not ashamed because, after two months of humiliating defeats, I want to win.  I don't have to win big...I just have to win.  And, in the process of researching on scrabblefinder.com, I'm learning all kinds of educational facts. Are you looking for a five letter word that begins with  KU?  If so, you will quickly learn that there are eleven such words, beginning with KUDOS and ending with KUSSO.  And that's just for starters.  Did you know QIS is indeed a word?  In relation to "Words With Friends" it is worth at least 12 points but can top out above 36 points if you place it in just the right place on the board.  I know that because DAbrown hit me with QIS yesterday afternoon just as I was creeping up on her score ever so slightly.  She may be unreachable now.

But, with my Scrabble Finder tool, and my competitive juices flowing, I'm confident and edgy.  Feelin'  a bit like Serena Williams entering Center Court as I strut toward my iPad.  Ejb9q7--Watch out.  Looks like you're next on my list.

HUNT & GATHER, SMILE & REMEMBER

Occasionally, the Wall Street Journal will, in its Saturday "Off Duty" section, highlight a city or scenic area and create a tightly scheduled, but perfect three day holiday.  This past weekend, WSJ settled on Minneapolis, calling it "The Nicest City in America."  A little over a year ago, my son was transferred to Minneapolis, bought a house and his sweet wife and two adorable children quickly flew there to join him.  We've visited twice since, and would certainly agree with the WSJ...Minneapolis is indeed a very nice place to be.  So nice, in fact, that many of our Arizona neighbors migrate there every summer to escape the dry heat of Arizona.

Since the WSJ, particularly the weekend edition, serves as my go-to coolness indicator, I began skimming their Minneapolis suggestions in hope that we had chosen correctly as we toured the city.  Although our visits lean a little toward lengthy lunches at Chuck E Cheese (the adorables are 4 and 7), we had still managed to visit, walk or drive by a few of WSJ's suggestions. But, generally, their schedule left me feeling a bit unsettled, not to mention uncool.  How could we have missed that many great restaurants and bars, groceries, bakeries and shops?  But wait!  I recognize that!  Scheduled from 2:00 to 3:00 p.m. on Monday afternoon: Hunt & Gather.  Perhaps my favorite antique, oddities, curiosities, and all around interesting shop ever.  Located on Xerxes Avenue among similar venues, one can easily spend half the day on the first floor.  The one hour schedule allotted by the WSJ barely gets you in the door.  Relax, WSJ.  Enjoy.  Smell that bit of mustiness, savor the age, page through that book.  There may be a treasure just around the corner...or down the stairs.  How do I know?
,

  
Because I was lucky enough to find this flawless, beautiful 1936 Royal Deluxe portable typewriter in the veritable rabbit warren that is Hunt & Gather's basement.  I spotted four or five well maintained typewriters, all displayed with equal care, but this one whispered my name as I approached.  My fondness (if not love) for  typewriters began when I was a small child and spent hours at my Aunt Letha's house typing nonsense on her vintage business-sized Royal.  I covered reams of paper with letters, numbers and symbols, and cried when it was time to go home.  When I graduated from high school and received my portable Smith-Corona (gray metal with green keys) to facilitate my college notes, research papers and the occasional letter home, I placed it carefully near my bedroom window and spent the summer typing, and day-dreaming of writing the great American novel.  Occasionally, I would open that window and light a cigarette I'd lifted from my mother's pack of Kools.  I'd carefully blow the resultant smoke out the window and magically become the very image of the Great American novelist.  

That summer, I was a voracious reader, devouring Time, Life and the Saturday Evening Post every week.  Through their pages, I shared Paris with Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Simone de Beauvoir, literary figures typing madly away on their Royal Deluxes or Underwoods.  They were my beautiful people...the glamorous intellectuals living in far away Europe, fueled by booze and the occasional positive review.  They were who I wished I could be.  Unfortunately, they were not who I was fated to be, considering my poor showing in Freshman Honors English.   

   
I have no idea who might have owned my new wonderful typewriter.  I hope they loved it...they certainly cared for it or, perhaps simply didn't use it often, but it's in good hands now.  It has transported me back to those dreamy, sultry summer days at the bedroom window when everything was possible and just around the corner.  Dreams were real and right there for the taking.  It was a glorious time.  Perhaps dreams don't have to end...68 may be pushing it a bit but, Lord knows, if not now, when?       

LESSONS LEARNED, PART I

As of this past May, I have five grandchildren who have graduated from college, two with Masters degrees.  I know it's bragging, but I don't think of it that way.  It's simply a fact.  They are gainfully employed, and relatively responsible members of society.  When they look back on their not so long ago college days, they break out in smiles.  What great experiences!  What wonderful fun!  What cool bars!  And...nearly all of these little darlings have "cum laude" or "magna cum laude" cords hanging someplace on their wall.  Where did these kids come from?  Not from Grandma, unfortunately.  I just don't have tremendously happy memories of college.  For example:

When I went to college (and, trust me, I couldn't wait) I knew I was hot stuff.  I had graduated from St. Mary of the Plains High School third or fourth, maybe fifth, in my class academically.  That is pretty good considering we had maybe 36 people in our class.  Or, was it 26?  No matter.  I had been a cheerleader, third page editor of the school newspaper, and editor of the school yearbook.  Those are hot things.  I had also chosen the theme for the Junior-Senior Prom--Bali Ha'i.  South Pacific (the movie) had been out for a few years but, apparently, had only recently reached Dodge City because I was totally enthralled with it and the Bali Ha'i concept. Obviously, I was ready for college...the big leagues.  Kansas State University of Agriculture and Applied Science, here I come.

On the second day of classes at KSU of A&AS, I was happily hurrying to my Freshman Honors English class.  How did I qualify for an Honors English class, you may ask?  God only knows.  Apparently, there were major problems with the non-computerized standardized testing system of the time.  However, there I was entering a rather dingy classroom wearing my oh-so-new plaid wool skirt and matching sweater and feeling oh, so good about myself.

I think his name was Ralph Adamany, and all of his tall, dark, gorgeousness was casually draped against the drab, scratched  instructor's desk at the front of the rather drab, scratched room.  Without hesitation, I took the seat immediately in front of him.  I was 210 miles from home, I'd just pledged Kappa Kappa Gamma, and God had dropped my ticket to heaven right in front of my eyes.  It could not get any better than this.

Ours was a smallish class made up (as I remember it) of a lot of Kansas City kids.  Big City kids from Big City high schools.  I was undaunted, however.  They may have looked down on St. Mary of the Plains High School and not been able to find Dodge City on a map, but I was fine with that.  I could run with the best of them.

The rather exotic Mr. Adamany began to speak in a beautifully languid tone of his recent time in Italy.  Thank you, Lord.  This is definitely not Dodge City.  He had been studying literature, of course, but way too soon I realized he was also giving us an assignment.  Our first reading exercise would be Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms which we would, of course, compare to Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front.

What!  What?  We are going to do what...before when?  Are you sure?  Big City Hotshot Guy on my left is already letting us know his feelings on Hemingway's style.  I do recognize the Hemingway name but who the hell is Remarque?  Does anyone else think it's hot in here?  Big City Girl behind me has just begun criticizing Big City Boy's Hemingway theories by presenting her own.  Mr. Adamany is looking at her with some interest.  Show Off!  Can someone open a window?  I don't know what these people are talking about and I think I'm just about to topple into a full blown panic attack.

To make a sad story a bit longer, I must tell you that I struggled with Hemingway.  I struggled with Remarque.  I struggled with metaphors and totally missed similes.  Frankly, I was completely over my head.  I was in deep trouble.  I assume it was either Mr. Adamany's  pity, or total ennui that let me escape his class with a C just before I sadly requested he place me in a regular Freshman English Class.  I didn't marry this handsome English teacher, nor did I see Italy until I was pushing middle age.  In fact, within the week, Mr. Adamany not only forgot my name, he forgot I was ever in his class.  Mr. Adamany broke my heart and my spirit.  I was never that young, nor hot again  
   

ORANGUTANS CAN WHAT???

According to a short article in this morning's Arizona Republic, four orangutans at the Louisville, KY, zoo received iPads with selected apps for Christmas.  They are, quite happily, playing on iPad drums and a xylophone.  They're poking at fish in an iPad koi pond between bouts of blasting iPad rocks.  And, they're interacting with other orangutans through iPad photos and videos.

Interestingly enough, BC and I also received an iPad plus iTunes gift cards for Christmas.  We are, in contrast to the orangutans, downloading our own applications but, after reading the app list for the orangutans, NPR, Pandora, CNBC and even K-State Sports seem a bit dull. 

Orangutans are considered to be highly intelligent and "require mental stimulation to keep from growing bored and depressed".  We are also intelligent.  "Highly" intelligent might be open to question, but we, too, require mental stimulation to keep from growing bored, depressed, and certifiably ga-ga.  Whereas, orangutans are participating in an animal-enrichment program which gives them freedom of choice ("critical to their well-being"), we are participating in a human-enrichment program designed to give us patience and forebearance when dealing with yet another technological marvel.

For example:  Upon initial set-up of our iPad, I entered our family e-mail as our Apple ID.  Later, in a less conscious moment, I entered a different e-mail address in our iCloud set-up.  Then, I forgot the passwords that matched each of those IDs.  Within a few days, I forgot that I had two IDs for different Apple applications and one would not easily translate to the other.  Then, to my horror, I realized I had written none of this down, so there were no records for iPad vs. iPod vs. iTunes vs. iCloud.  Had I bought an iPhone when I really wanted to and, in my ignorance, created even more IDs and passwords, well...it would have been unsolvable. 

Today, I spent nearly five hours straightening up the ID/Password situation, before beginning to struggle with Apple Support to bring the iPad back to life. It had begun refusing to respond to any request we tentatively made. 

In the Louisville zoo, however, Amber, Bella, Segundo and Teak spent those same five hours merrily exercising their highly intelligent brains and "innate ability to work with touchscreen technology" by enjoying their favorite interactive apps, "Colors and Sounds".  I'm very happy for them...really I am.  But I hate that an orangutan--no matter how sweet or cute--can interact with others through an iPad, and I need a cheat-sheet to Skype.  Oh, I'm sorry...Face Time.

PLANNER PERFECT

November is perhaps my favorite month of the year.  Catalogs are filling our over-sized mailbox and among them is one of my favorites.  Franklin Covey advertising their Franklin Planners.  I have had a decades long love affair with Franklin Planners.  It began in the early 1990s when I was a hotshot banker type wearing a suit and heels to work each day.  I needed a planner (to complete my hotshot look) and Franklin fit the bill.  I purchased a "Monarch" style (8 1/2 by 11 1/2 inch pages) complete with green leather monogrammed cover, pages for all occasions (calendars, client notes, telephone reminders, address book, etc...) limited only by the 1 1/2 inch diameter rings holding it all together.  I had made a perfect match.

A few years and five bank mergers later, I lost my hotshot-ness.  Sadly, it was time to pack away the "Monarch" and move on.  I chose the slightly smaller "Classic" Franklin Planner for this next phase of my life.  Reminiscent of L.L. Bean, my Franklin Planner cover was black canvas with tan leather trim.  No need for a monogram this time...I knew who I was.  I drove a four-wheel drive Ford Explorer, remodeled a 70 year old house in a wonderful neighborhood, loved my independence and roared whenever I felt like it.  Those were good and powerful years until early one morning, just as the coffee began to drip through its filter, I detected a most unwelcome odor and traced it to...to my Franklin Planner.  Yes, Winston, my beautiful, but moody, Main Coon cat, had peed on that L.L. Bean black canvas Franklin Planner cover.  In that moment of his insanity, my illusions, delusions and lifestyle were destroyed.  I was a sailor without a ship, a farmer without a field, an insecure woman with no identity.

The following years were filled with confusion, indecision, and numerous Franklin Planner covers and pages.  I thought I was home free with the "New Yorker" edition.  But, far too soon, it was discontinued.  Then began several seasons of "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People."  Pithy, serious, intense...it simply became too much.  I spent a pared down year with "Original" followed by a stint of classicism with "Monticello".  But, nothing was working.

So, as I looked through the 2013 catalog,  my heart dropping more with each page turned, I knew it was time for serious reflection.  The Franklin Planner had moved in a different direction than I.  We are no longer compatible.  We have irreconcilable differences.  This is a sad day but a hopeful day.  I'm going to the internet to find the planner that will walk into the future with me.  One that will fit in my purse, but have sufficient writing space on each page.  One that reflects my interests in a classy, personal sort of way.  One that...Mon Dieu...this is it!

I am in love again and my life has new meaning.  This little beauty, about 5 by 8 inches, gives me one page per day to schedule my appointments plus a small area for notes.  Its cover is "Inspired by an antique leather binding from the 1843 volume of "The Poetical Remains of Henry Kirke White of Nottingham."  Does it get any better?  I'm already filling in January dates and tucking small things into the secret pocket.  You have no idea how wonderful it is to have a reason to get up every morning...just to gaze at this reflection of my artistic and creative side.  This next year will be the best yet!

PS--These people have no idea that I'm waxing eloquent over their product, but my little lovely is made by Paperblanks and was purchased from jennibick.com.  It comes in a variety of styles and sizes and if you can handle a week on two pages, you'll be in heaven contemplating the choices.         

LIBRARY MAGIC

A few weeks ago, Collin, whose snaggle-toothed grin does indeed stretch from ear to ear, received his first library card.  It's from Riverside County, California, and more valuable than...than all the tea in China! 

His momentous event immediately took me back--not to my first library card (I don't think we had such a thing back in the day), but to my first library.  Dodge City Public Library which, thanks to Andrew Carnegie, was built in 1905, and existed as a veritable institition by the time I came along.  It was a nearly square little red-brick building perched on the corner of Second and Spruce.  Its crowning feature was a beautiful, but notoriously leaky dome.  Inside was all cream colored plaster highlighted by elegant dark wood trim.  Chest high shelving hugged the exterior walls while heavy tall stacks held center court in the large browsing room.  The design was an open plan, more or less, with fat plaster pillars supporting the roof as well as hinting at divisions of subject matter, age, serious study, subdued conversation or surreptitious hand-holding.  (Only in the reference section.)  I remember a fireplace or two, but never a fire.  Smallish stained glass windows were scattered here and there, contributing to the slightly sacred feel of the space.  And always and everywhere was the unique scent of books...new books, old books, leather bound or heavy cardboard covers.   Hovering near every over-stuffed chair and dusty corner was the magical sense of anticipation that wafted from the first page of every freshly opened book.  Where would the magic carpet fly and who would I be when I stepped off? 

That's exactly what I wish for Collin.  I wish him quiet afternoons tracking through a long ago Kentucky forest with Daniel Boone.  He'll definitely need an extra coat and a furry dog when he explores the far northwest territories of Canada, but he'll warm up quickly near the equater as he sails to Africa.  He can fly to the farthest solar system, descend through the deepest ocean, climb the highest mountain, and still be home in time for dinner. 

Mastercard has it wrong.  This little green card?  It's the priceless one!

        

WHERE DID THE DAY GO?

Today, I have every hour planned down to the last minute, but I've just been waylaid by an errant decorative plate slipping from its perch and sliding across the shelf taking three wine glasses to the floor with it.  D---.  I'm sweeping glass from every nook and cranny in our breakfast room/kitchen combination, all the while fuming about this unscheduled interruption.  When on a time sensitive roll, I can be more than a little anal retentive.  There...finally finished.

But, as I glance at the cool decorative basket that holds my treasury of little used cook books, I see that it's also littered with wine glass shards.  D---.  I carefully pull out each book, wipe it off, then finally dump the glass from the basket and vacuum it with the tiny vacuum...the one with very little suction, but enough to do this job.

I begin to creatively place the books back into the basket--Tall books down to short?  Short books up to tall?  Mixed?  Messy?  Neat?  What would Pottery Barn do?  D----.  I pick up a newish cookbook simply titled "Pasta" that  I bought at IKEA a few months ago but haven't looked at yet.  At the time I had some reservations about buying a Pasta cookbook that was produced in Germany, printed in Slovenia, then sold at the ultimate Swedish bastion of coolness, but threw all caution to the winds and put down my $8.00.

And now, I'm thinking that pasta would be good for dinner tonight--quick and relatively easy.  I scan the Table of Contents, settle on "Pasta and Meat", Page 62, and begin skimming the recipes.

I'm brought up short by Page 84--Fettuccini with Rabbit.  That is just sick and wrong, but I do continue to look at the list of ingredients which seems fairly inocuous if you leave out the various rabbit parts:  fettuccini, salt, herb butter, garlic, cream, parsley, pepper, 16 Vineyard Snails.  16 Vineyard Snails?  What are Vineyard Snails?

So now, I must fire up the computer to visit my new good friend, Wikipedia.  But, Wikipedia is as stumped as I am...no entries for Vineyard Snails. 

That, of course, means I have to go to Google, which I was trying to avoid because I have a scheduled day and it can take so long to really find what you might be looking for...and, sure enough, Google has returned 521,000 entries in 0.19 seconds.  They're tremendously proud of that fact, but it's another 0.19 seconds out of my day which, if I haven't mentioned, is a busy one.

OK. Vineyard Snails, known to some as Helix Pomatia (Latin?) are quite the delicacy in Europe.  "Highly valued" as a matter of fact.  They are exported from Lithuania in great numbers.  Apparently, according to an entry farther down the page, some slimed right off a container at the Port of Tacoma which, as of late 2010, was locked in a life and death battle with the little buggers.  They (the Vineyard Snails) are quite fond of cereal grains and, left alone, could decimate the fields of Washington.  Not something to be sneezed at.

Now, where was I?  Oh yes. Don't worry, little fellow in my back yard, I wouldn't cook you even if I had 16 Vineyard Snails, so I'll put the cookbook away and go back to...what was I was doing when this all started?

THE "NEW" AMERICAN WAY--AN OCCASIONAL SAGA

Perhaps it's because I'm "of a certain age", but going to the grocery store for a Shingles shot (or injection, as BC would so precisely intone) just seems sick and wrong.  "Got your list?"  "Yeah, I just need to grab bread, lunchmeat, lettuce and a Shingles shot."  No!!! One should make an appointment with her family doctor, check in, sit in the waiting room for hours, become frustrated and, finally, get her Shingles shot.  It's the American Way!  One should not be able to simply stroll past the frozen foods tossing an occasional item in her cart, then steer it right into the Shingles shot area and begin pricing vaccinations.  I'll tell you what it is:  it's all part of the coarsening of our culture.  Actually, I'm not really sure that's right but I'm going to leave it in for now.

Since I'm past the requisite age, had a bad case of Chicken Pox as a first-grader, and have spent the last couple of years watching friends, family and neighbors keel over with nasty cases of Shingles, I felt strongly that I'd probably pushed my luck about as far as I should.  So, in addition to my shopping list, I grabbed my Shingles vaccine prescription and BC, and we were off to the store.

Are we here yet?  Are we, are we, are we?

Can I have a balloon if I don't cry?  Puleeeeeease?

Whoa...this is beginning to feel just a bit more official and real now!  I think I'll just skip down to the signature line. 

This very nice Pharmacist who has just had a camera stuck in his face and wonders what expose' this photo will highlight, did hold himself together quite nicely and was an extremely  good shot giver (injectionizer?)

Bottom line:  No, I didn't get a balloon even though I didn't cry.  But, and I swear by all that is holy  this is the truth, I got a certificate that said:  "You're immunized!  Here is your reward...10% OFF Your next grocery purchase.  Thank you."

Oh no, no.  Thank You. 

A CERTAIN AGE

When I drove in from the airport after my California trip it was dark, which occurs pretty early now that Arizona autumn is officially here.  I was kind of down in the dumps after leaving the kids...Collin's little sad face had stayed with me.  Lauren was pretty oblivious at the time, but her Mother did report that she screamed "GG" for ten minutes after they left the airport.  What a sweet little girl!

I gathered my bags, collected the mail and set about the reorganization that always follows a trip--even a short one.  I unpacked a bit and then sat down to open the mail.  I've always loved mail--even in today's world where most of it can be recycled before reaching the front door.  I'm standing in the kitchen sorting--pitch here, recycle there, open that...when an envelope caught my eye--and why not?  "Win a Free Cremation.  No Purchase or Obligation."  Whoa!!

I had to open that one.  "Dear Margie," (lucky guess, right?) followed by a page and a half of "no sales pressure", "no obligation", and then the bottom line:  "Sometimes death happens before you have had a chance to put plans in place.  We stand ready to assist at a moment's notice should you need immediate help."

Suddenly, I needed to sit down.  I may not feel well.  Perhaps a sore throat?  Yes!  I'm awfully tired?  Yes!  A pain?  Sharp or dull?  Yes!  A headache?  Dizziness?  Is this a moment?  I think I might need immediate help immediately!!

Then I carefully tell myself to calm down.  I'm reading an advertising piece sent out, no doubt, to all of Sun City Grand.  I'm fine, I'm young for my age, I exercised two weeks ago, I drink a glass of red wine every evening.  Actually, I think I'll have one right now.

OK, I'm good.  In fact, I'm kind of amused.  Win a cremation!!  I hadn't expected that even in this neighborhood.  So, I take a little sip and slit open the next envelope.  "Dear Margie,  Do you find yourself asking others to repeat themselves more and more often?  Are you feeling left out of conversations?"   "Digital hearing health care...Call today for an appointment...be sure to bring a friend or loved one--someone whose voice is familiar to you ."  Why would I need to do that?  Will I be having a moment?  Will I be needing immediate help?

I'm leaving the rest of the mail for tomorrow.