New I Pad III Upgrade? Horns?

NPR just told me that the new I Pad III is out today and one of the features is faster connectivity. Ummmmm. I presently have immediate and unlimited access to a wealth of information and non. (non? = stuff you don't really need to know but somehow want to know) On a whim, I can wonder about the time I went to see Chorus Line, 30 years ago, and ask, “Who was the 3rd girl from the left in the original Broadway performance?” With a few clicks, my magic technology will tell me the answer.
The only “faster” to immediate, is for the I Pad III to give me information before I know I need or want it. I picture the little rectangular glow waddling over and tapping me on the leg and saying, “Excuse me, but in 10 minutes you are going to wonder what the average Memphis temperature for June is and so I thought I would just go ahead and look that up for you. It is 88.5 degrees.”
I don’t know about you, but that is one upgrade I am not prepared to deal with spiritually. I don’t want anything with welded parts telling me what I am going to think. The I Pad III is obviously from the devil and so, for religious reasons, I have given it up for Lent, Hanukah and Syttende mai .

Tiny Traditions

It is Saturday morning after a Friday night sleepover with 3 yr old Wesley. We are in the kitchen for our traditional pancake breakfast. Wesley and I have our little routines. I mix the pancake batter and she gives it a final magic mix. While she stirs, I get the griddle out and spray it with oil. We both watch the gooey disc sizzle on the griddle until the bubbles pop and Wesley says, “Flip it Gamma!”
This Saturday we were moving right along in the process until I put the pancake on her tray with her bowl of syrup for dipping. Wesley said, “ This is the wrong bowl, Gamma.” I looked down and realized that her syrup bowl was a little white bowl. Oh my, she was so right. This was wrong.
A little background confession (or two) is necessary here. I have a tiny bowl problem. Not a tiny problem but a problem with tiny bowls. I like them. I think they are really, really cute. I see them at Goodwill and at oriental grocery stores and I just have to buy them. Consequently, I have a lot of them. More than any sane person needs. There are several towering stacks tucked away in the cabinet. It is an innocent addiction , a victimless crime, and they are amazingly useful. Just the right size for a dab of this or a smidge of that. The very thing for syrup dipping.
My second sad confession is that I really tried to pass on my love of tiny bowls to my daughter. I gave her a set of tiny bowls at her wedding shower! She was very gracious but oddly unmoved by the momentous occasion of her first, few tiny bowls. Alas, she does not seem to have the tiny bowl gene. I don’t think she even notices them at the Goodwill.
Back to Saturday morning and pancake time. When Wes said she had the wrong bowl I knew exactly what she meant. Somewhat unconciously, I always use one particular bowl for her syrup. It is a small white bowl with a little green flower near an inside rim. Perfectly charming! I don’t remember when it became the syrup bowl in my mind, but it did. Don’t you have a special fondness for patterns and colors from your childhood? Do you ever see a dish or plate at an antique store and say, “Oh those were my grandmother’s plates.” Or, “I always use to have ice cream in a bowl just like that.”
So when Wesley said, “I need the bowl with the little green flower,” my heart leaped with joy. At only three she already realizes the importance of the perfect tiny bowl. I delightfully transferred her syrup to the RIGHT little bowl. Let the pancake dipping begin! (In the tiny bowl with the little green flower.) Just the thing for a sweet little tradition.

Equal Rights, the Fight Goes On

Driving along and listening to NPR for the latest update on Irene, I heard a piece on how unfortunate it was the ceremony for the new MLK memorial was postponed. To flesh out the story, they interviewed people already there for the occasion. One man was a Civil Rights pioneer who marched with Dr. King. I don’t remember his name, but I thought he spoke eloquently and righteously represented people from those historic times with a concise and poignant summary of the events. I am a liberal democrat, so I was giving him my silent “Amens” and feeling all white and right justified that I have always been on the side of good and against the evil of racism and inequality (as any intelligent person would be). Then he recounted an experience that stopped me in my tracks. Following a peaceful protest he was arrested and put in Parchment. He and fellow protesters went on a 17 day hunger strike. “Wow, how courageous they were,” I thought. Then he went on to note, as an aside, “I lost 100 pounds.”

DAMN.

Now he had my full attention. My first - very, very, very, first thought was , “I could do that.” I could starve for 17 days if a 100 pound loss was my reward. My biggest problem with diets is you have to be on them forever before anything significant happens. I always give up. But 17 days? You can do anything for 17 days. That was my very, very, very, first thought. My second thought, fast on the heels of the first thought, (so fast it tripped over the first thought and took it down) was - he’s a man.

You and I both know if I starved for 17 days, I would lose, maybe, 2 lbs and conceivably even gain weight from breathing deeply. Metabolism is the new racism. It is not just or right that men have taken all the good metabolism and left us with sluggish, immobile digestion. I demand integration with their metabolism. I want the same opportunities and dietary equality as the male among us. I dream that one day I will sit at the table with men and enjoy my meal in fairness and know that we both will metabolize those fat grams with equal enthusiasm.

I propose a constitutional amendment. The rights of no person to metabolize at a maximum rate shall be abridged based on gender.

I expect resistance to the idea. “The Man,” won’t like us standing up for our rights. But I encourage fat chicks everywhere to resist with peaceful but determined solidarity. (Put us all together and that is a solid front)

So, let’s plan our first protest. We will do a sit in. Maybe at the Memphis airport? No, Wait, too close to the Whitehaven Krispy Kreme. that won’t work. How about downtown? Ummmm, no, Rendezvous, Huey’s, Arcade. uh uh. Well, let’s meet out east. Oh hell, MOSA, Carrabas, Muddy’s, GiGi’s.

OK, the only thing to do is recreate the original historical event. Parchment it is. Hunger strike/sit in until we get what we want! Let’s assign chores. Last names from A to M, you guys bring the salty snacks. N to Z last names will do sweet. Everybody bring sweet tea and your own glass. 17 days to thin-equality. Skinny, here I come. I hate skinny people though. Do I even want to go there? But I shouldn’t be a hater. I am going to think positively. I love skinny people, dipped in chocolate and rolled in crushed almonds. Salty/Crunchy and sweet.

Does Anyone Know if She is Registered at Pottery Barn?

It is hard to miss some things, even though I really try. Lately, I have tried not to know about Kim Kardashian’s wedding. It has long been my policy to not know about Kim Kardashian’s anything. (and that includes the family she rode in on) But, as I lamented, it has been hard to miss the random tv tabloid tidbit about the wedding. So, despite my quick trigger finger on the remote, I have ascertained that the nuptials are approaching and she has spent an insane and sinful amount of money on the occasion.

Being short on patience with people like her (and Paris and Lindsey and Charlie), listening to this news garnered a severe, but sad little shake of my head at the stupidity of empty headed rich people. What total absurdity to spend millions of dollars on a one moment in time event. It is the “ I am daddy’s little princess and more special than anyone else.” syndrome taken to ludicrous limits. I have no issue with a bride having her special day and her spotlight moment. But people, please just keep it in perspective. I fantasized about photoshopping some Sudanese refugees as guests at the wedding for a visual reality check. I abandoned the idea because it felt like I was trivializing their plight.

BUT WAIT! On second thought! I had a perspective redo of my own. Prior to her prolonged and self indulgent wedded bliss-a-thon, my limited knowledge of Kim Kardashian translated in my head to one word - useless. Now I have self corrected and decided that the wedding has at last transformed useless to useful. Our economy is in the toilet! KK is hemorrhaging money into our economy at a head spinning pace. She might single handedly save us from economic disaster.

Had she asked, I might have suggested that she share her special day with close family and friends, in an understated way, and donate the extra millions to a food bank somewhere or many wheres. But oddly enough, she didn’t ask. I must Pollyanna in the situation. Many people have a job because she is a self centered, entitled little princess, throwing herself a mega wedding. And when you come right down to it, I haven’t done much for any Sudanese refugees my own self. So in honor of the Kardashian/ impending happy day, I pledge to put money in the plate at church Sunday and designate it for the food pantry. It won’t change the world but it might feed a hungry child this week. Kim, this donation is for you girlfriend! All the millions of hungry children in the world hope you will save them a piece of cake. Marie Antoinette would be so proud.

Good Kittens, Bad Weeks

It is TCAP standardized testing week. We educators spend the entire school year planning for and teaching toward this week. So this is our culminating event, the big show, the icing on the cake. And, if I may be blunt, the documented most BORING week in the history of the world. Hours and hours of watching small children silently read and bubble small circles with #2 pencils. It makes watching paint dry my dream job. Today was day 1 of 4 scintillating days of this torture. I needed a drink after work and then a nap because my brain had glazed over and was comatose. As I was preparing for bed and anticipating another fascinating day of education at its best, I found myself depressed with the hours of mindlessness that stretches ahead. Then Tessa bounded in. Tessa is my new-ish kitten. She was on a tear, chasing . . . uh well, chasing something invisible that was tormenting her and which she was damn well going to kill if it was the last thing she did. She leaped upon the bed and was incensed that I moved my toes under the quilt. She attacked and killed the toe hordes and then suddenly flopped over and was asleep before she hit the quilt. I was quite entertained and as I put band aids on what was left of my toes I had this epiphany. I need to be smart like a kitten and learn to make my own entertainment. That will be my intellectual challenge for this week. Using my quiet time to chase my invisible dreams and create amusements that only I can see. Forgive my liberty. But I now pay homage to my favorite poet.

Mending Kitten

With apologies to Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn’t love a kitten,

That whirls into a twisting frenzy with a toe swell under the quilt

and claws and spits to kill the bed moles and decimate their evilness.

Then collapses into deep and total recumbent slack

Much as a rug spreads, inanimate, across a floor, boneless.

Good kittens make good people

because to love a kitten, to snuggle its soft fur and

tolerate the tiny fangs of its wild heritage to discover a satisfied purr

Is to find your fine and glorious inner humanity

Hidden from sight by the trash of the day and

the slog of modern life and muddled mindless human interaction

Good fences may make good neighbors but

Good kittens make good people.

10.9.8.7. . . Count Down to Giving Up.

I recently was the victim of a new advertising campaign. In all fairness, this particular campaign is not aimed at my demographic. It is for birth control and I am long out of the bc market. But I still have to sit through this and all other ads irrelevant to me (i.e. gas guzzler cars, sports events and ED meds) . I think advertisers have an obligation to make all media palatable to viewers. This product is called 10 something and the premise of the spot is that if you use it, you are a "10" (hence the need for immediate birth control). Sure enough, the women in the commercial are lovely examples of all that is physically beautiful as sanctified by television. This approach seems narrow minded both in the universal and the business sense. If only "10's" are their target audience, they will not have much business. I hate to burst their bubble, but most of us are sub-ten. In the universal sense, it offends me. It perpetuates the premise that only the physically beautiful "10's" of this world are viable candidates for a relationship. Recently, the airways have been cluttered with Charlie Sheen o'mania. Covering his every insane utterance. It is just the latest in a long history of insane celebrity/celebrity wannabe coverage. Lindsey Lohan, Paris Hilton, Mel Gibson, Octomom et al, (all) have inflicted their personal demons on the world. I admit to following the antics with mild, morbid interest in the train wreck that represents life in that world. It is hard not to look. Spectacles are like that. But recently my patience with it all, has diminished. (Old people are like that. Bah humbug and all! ) There is so much need in the world. There are so many children with so little hope, so few of the basic necessities, so deprived of simple affection that my sympathy for the "10's" of the celebrity world is all used up on the 10's of thousands of children who are not afforded millions of dollars to squander, infusing their tiger blood with drugs and alcohol. I hope Charlie Sheen and his ilk get a soul awakening, see the light and turn away from traveling down the self absorbed path of hedonistic no return. I pray that they take a page from the book of Clooney and use their fame and fortune to help and care about someone else. Anyone else. But I refer you back to where this post began. The ad campaign that seeks to glorify the "10's". It is soon the lenten season and it has been many years since I have had something meaningful inspire me to participate in "giving up" for lent. But this commercial, coming on the heels of being sick of hearing about Charlie Sheen and his winning ways, inspired me. I am not a 10 and I never was a 10. I do not have tiger blood or a puppy who lives in my purse or any quality or quirk that is remotely worth a reality tv show. My lenten decision is kinda like a drinking game. For every time I succumb to the temptation to give one second of my life to listening to tv trash about celebrity self indulgence, I will donate ten dollars to helping someone in need. In other words, I will take a drink from the cup of compassion. So good bye Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, and all other celebrity obsessed media. I bid you adieu, auf weidersehen, au revoir. I choose to give my attention to the helpers of the world. We may not be 10's or movie stars but we are worthy. Hey Charlie, I heard that the Red Cross is low on tiger blood. Care to donate a pint? On second thought, 90 proof tiger blood might be more potent than mere sub-ten mortals can stomach.

Remodeling Rampage

My sister never met a house she wouldn't like just a little better with a few minor changes.  She was a small child when this tendency was first noticed.  Her favorite toy was Lincoln Logs.  Fairly normal as far as that goes, even for a girl.  But her log cabins never looked like any pioneer structure you've ever seen.  She graduated to a doll house and it was in a perpetual state of construction.  There were little pieces of cardboard cut and taped to form new walls and random holes were chunked out of the ceiling for skylights.  A discarded cracker box became a detached living unit for grandmother doll.   

As time passed, these innocent beginnings blossomed into something slightly more ominous.  When visiting homes of friends, she would go into a trance and stare at their walls, muttering about, ". . .opening up some breathing space."  She would go into bathrooms for an unseemly amount of time, only to emerge smiling, reeling in her industrial strength tape measure.  "There's three square feet of wasted space in there," she would declare. "Let's talk about building some shelves."

Finally, it all came to a head and the family drew a line in the sand (left over from the patio project) and demanded she come out of the closet.  "Peggy," we cried, "come out of the closet and put down that hammer."  We begged her to tell us once and for all what the problem was.  But she wasn't listening.  She was staring at the line we drew in the sand and asked if we were putting a wall there.  "That's it," we declared, "you've got a remodeling problem and it is time you admitted it.  Really Peggy, there's no shame here.   A lot of people change a few things here and there.  You've just let it get out of control and now is the time to get a handle on things."  "Ummm, yeah," she agreed, "handles.  Pretty brass ones with distinctive back plates. It would make those cabinets pop!"

We knew then that she needed professional help.  Surprisingly, there were no listings in the Yellow Pages under RA (Remodeling Anonymous) therapy.  We were on our own.  First, we decided to try aversion therapy.  Every time she started a new remodeling project we smashed her thumb with a hammer.  It was ineffective since she didn't seem to notice.

Next, we did a family intervention.  One day we rented a plain white van and hired a fast driver.  We wheeled into the parking lot at Home Depot just as she was trundling out a loaded lumber cart.  We screeched to a halt and all three sisters leaped to the pavement in front of her cart.  (Well, leaped is stretching the point.  We are old and a little plump, so leaping is not our forte.) "Oh good," she said, " all of these 2 X 4's will fit in the van and the 1 X 6's can go in my truck.  Dianne, grab that can of primer, will you?"

Finally, as a last resort, we turned to tough love.  We had her committed to a facility for a two month rehab program.  After the first two months, they said she wasn't finished and the project would take a little longer.  That seemed like an odd way to phrase a medical diagnosis, but we were desperate and accepted it. Finally, after six months they declared her "finished" and ready to move on to "phase two". Our suspicions were slightly raised when we arrived to pick her up and noticed a beautiful new sun room off the back of the facility. It wasn't until later that the horrifying truth was fully revealed.  Phase two was a halfway house.  She remodeled it.  Now it is a whole way, with skylights and a detached living unit.