Saying No to The EVENT; Yes to Dress!

Okay, I saw the second episode of "The Event" last night, and athough the jumping back and forth in time still made me nuts, I did "get it"--aliens among us...yada, yada, blah, blah. I don't think I am going to be a fan.

My latest fave is "Say Yes to the Dress." And this Friday they will debut a "Say Yes to the Dress: Big Bliss" for Big Women! (I am waiting for my spin-off: Say Yes to the Dress for Plump Petites -- or as I call people built like me: "Jumbo Shrimps.") I am sure they will get around to it eventually.

I don't know what it is about "Say Yes." I just can't stop watching it. These women who (until Friday's new spin-off) were all thin and gorgeous, seem to be marrying such schlubs. And who would spend $10-25,000 on a dress you wear once? I don't know what this show says about our culture, but I know it says something. Maybe it's the Disney Princess syndrome run amok. Or maybe it's just in our genes to like this stuff.

All these women say they dreamed about their wedding dress since they were little girls. I never did. Did you? Please take my poll. Say yes to taking my poll!

The Event Conspiracy

I agree with Betty White, who said after she found out what Facebook was, she realized it was a "colossal waste of time." I have about 53 friends on Facebook, only because I am too much of a wus to "not friend" anybody who asks me. My kids just sent me an email to confirm that I am their mother. What the  %$#@? Is that so if they get in trouble, I have to make bail? I almost never go to my Facebook page, because, well...I don't get it. And I know I don't get it because I'm too friggin' old to get it. 

I don't know how to text because I don't get that either. I'm too friggin' old to get it. (And my thumbs are too fat.)

Scene from The Event, NBC

However, there has always been one media outlet that I could depend on to keep me feeling part of the contemporary world: Television. I have been a television baby since I was born, and even if I don't like some of it, I can get it. But now the TV is out to exclude me, too. It started with "Lost," which was aptly named. But this season I was determined to make more of an effort and see if my TV brain cells still had it. So I watched the premiere of "The Event." Maybe it's a test to see if you have Alzheimer's. I didn't get it, and I know I don't get it because I'm too friggin' old to get it.

I think this is the real EVENT: in a hidden compound in the wilds of Burbank a group of 19-21-year-old writers are writing shows that will eventually make everyone over 40 think they are brain dead. These hapless souls will end up in special homes with TV's that have "child controls" instead of parental ones.  

I am just too friggin' old to get it, but I'll give it another try tonight. If you can figure it out, let me know. Maybe your brain cells are younger.

The Mystery of Memories

Remember the show, Columbo? He was the quintessential detective who looked too sloppy and stupid to be able to solve the crime. And in a classic twist, we knew who the criminal was from the get-go. The fun was watching Peter Falk stumble in, guffaw, cajole, pester and finally ensnare the crook who was inevitably done in by his or her underestimation of Columbo's brilliance. How was it possible that this grungy, goofy guy could remember and notice the details that a mastermind criminal forgot?

Memories are like that. What we remember about our lives should be prime clues to our substance. What we remember should give a picture of who we are --because they should tell us of who we were. But I have an inner Columbo who keeps stumbling around in my brain. I remember the day a teacher yelled at me in second grade but can't recall the first words my twins said. Of course, photos help. And now that we live in an age in which we can digitally document every moment, most memories can be frozen forever to delight or indict us.

What makes me think so fondly of Columbo is that he is responsible for giving me one of my happiest memories. Well, okay, it wasn't really Columbo. It was a gifted actor and writer named Michael Pasternak, who began his career as a Columbo "impersonator." It was about 1988, and it was my father's 85th birthday. My parents came out from Baltimore to visit us here in California. We wanted to have a little party to celebrate. My sister and her husband and kids came out, too. My mother loved Columbo, and so did my dad. So when I saw the ad for Pasternak, I called. Quickly I realized that Pasternak was no ordinary celebrity impersonator. He spent about an two hours on the phone with me getting all kinds of details about the 85-year-old birthday boy--the more embarrassing, the better.

Susan and Erik Amerikaner, Hilary, Phil & Ilene Spector, Columbo, Jeannette and Fred (my parents)

We had just finished dinner that night when the doorbell rang. In sauntered Pasternak/Columbo. At first he seemed to be in the wrong place, but then he took out that notepad of his and started to give details about the life of Dr. Fred Glass that left the good doc, my mother and my whole family in complete hysterics. It was such a surprise. And surprises--good ones--are so hard to come by.

Of all the photos that were stuffed in boxes, this one above literally fell into my hands when we moved here to Leisure Village. I cried when I saw it. Look at my mother. Isn't she beautiful? Isn't she happy? What I didn't know was that it would be the last time I would see her alive. I now have the photo above my computer.

Recently I reconnected with Michael Pasternak.  I wanted him to know how he touched my life. I think you do a mitzvah (a good deed) when you let people know that. And guess what? He remembered me. And he is still doing Columbo as well as other unique, unforgettable entertainment for parties. He is a big success, and I am not surprised at that...because he probably has touched many families in similar ways. I don't want to give away the other entertainment Pasternak provides, because, as I said, surprise is key. You will have to go to http://www.pasternakproductions.com/ to see for yourself. I am no Martha Stewart, but if I were planning a party, I would want something that touches the soul instead of the palate. And you just never know what that will be...

The Smell of Funnel Cake and Freedom

Air Force Thunderbirds

My husband has always wanted to see an Air Show. Like many men, the sight of billion dollar aircraft doing fancy tricks has primal appeal. We have been married for 30 years, and every year he mentions it, and every year I say no. I finally got over my thing about wanting to go to Renaissance Fairs. I gave that up when I found out that instead of ten dollar churros, they have ten dollar turkey legs. In the past I have always clung to the irrational fear that if I did go to an Air Show, I would be in the crowd when something went terribly wrong and people were killed. But this time our neighbors were going and pointed out that this fear was ridiculous.  So we went to the Air Show at Point Mugu. The stars of the show were the Air Force Thunderbirds, who do some pretty fancy flying.

This is what I found out about air shows. There is actually a husband and wife act in which the husband flies a biplane, and his wife walks on the wing while he's doing all sorts of topsy turvy stunts. Now that's a marriage with trust. I also found out that if a show takes place near the beach, you wait for hours for the fog to clear. At one of the many breaks in the action, a large bird took the "center stage." It hovered and did all the tricks that the aircraft were doing. The crowd burst into applause. This was my favorite part of the whole show. I also learned that during breaks you eat a lot, and if you're me, that means a lot of funnel cake. (I would have been better off with turkey legs.) 

There was a man seated next to us who was an ex-marine and a real air show regular. When he found out I was an air show "virgin," he took me under his wing (pun intended) and explained everything to me. When the planes buzzed close, and I had to put my fingers in my ears, he yelled, "That's the sound of FREEDOM!" When they did a simulated bombing run and there was a wall of flame and waves of heat, he yelled, "That's the smell of FREEDOM!"

Frankly, I was mostly interested in the smell of the funnel cakes, but his testosterone-fueled enthusiasm and his genuine patriotism did make me think. The thinking was much worse than the deafening sound of the engines. I was thinking what freedom really does sound and smell like. I was thinking of the young men and women out there operating these machines in dangerous places. I was thinking that no matter how precise the aircraft is, bombs or bullets cannot differentiate between a terrorist or a civilian or a mother or child. I was thinking about how war never ends. I was thinking that I could never craft a light-hearted blog out of this experience, but I knew I had to write about it to relieve the pressure in my brain. If I didn't, some tabloid would have a true headline reading: Woman's Head Explodes At Air Show.

My husband agreed that it was our first and last air show. I wish I could say the same about funnel cake...

My Husband Always Makes Me Laugh!

 It's the secret of a great marriage. I had to share this one with you. We were watching some of the speculation on the upcoming wedding of Chelsea Clinton.

Erik said, "Wow. Think what it would be like to have Bill Clinton as your father-in-law. Imagine that Bachelor Party!"

I guess it depends on what your definition of "that" is...

My Secret Shame

This week I finally went to a meeting of my book club, and I had actually read the book! That is because the book was Ruth Riechl's memoir about her mother and can be read in an hour and a half. I loved it, but some people in our group hated it because they felt Ruth had given her mother short shrift. I think if you get any shrift at all from your kids after you're dead, it's a good thing. I am a writer, so I should be a voracious reader. But here is it is: I am anything but. In college I loved Dickens and Thomas Hardy. After college I moved on to People, the New Yorker and slim volumes of poetry. I am still like that: an eclectic mix of intellect, fluff, and pure junk. The guilt always gnaws at me, especially during commercials of NCIS--and especially when I'm watching an episode that I've seen before. Can one be a good storyteller without studying volumes of other storytellers? I cannot answer that without flinching. It's not that I never read, but I certainly do not read enough books. I love television and always have. Howdy Doody started my addiction, and I have been in the Peanut Gallery ever since. I do play Scrabble on my laptop while I watch Law and Order. It's not that I don't love words. I do, I do!

The other day I went to an Internet site that asked me to include my "personal profile." The screen prompted me with questions, such as: What would your last meal be? That was easy. CAKE! But one question made me queasy: Which one book have you read over and over?

My cheeks flushed with shame. My mouse wouldn't budge. (Not even on my Ouija Board mouse pad.) Finally I filled in the blank. Which book have you read over and over? I wrote: TV Guide. Ouch. The truth does hurt!

Zero to Sixty in A Flash

I haven't blogged for quite a while. I was on the treadmill. No, not the one at the gym; the treadmill of life: meeting deadlines and zooming off to Florida for my nephew's Miami beach wedding. I am the consummate non-traveler. When I was young, I loved taking planes. That was in the 70's, when you could cram more than your knees in the seat and get more to eat than a $10 pack of nuts and raisins. Planes rarely were late, and if there were issues, you were treated well. In 1974 I was on a 747 when the captain announced that one of the engines had quit. He said cheerfully that he could fly it with just one, but to be sure they were heading back to San Francisco so they could fix the problem. In the meantime, all the drinks were now free. So by the time we landed in San Francisco, nobody cared about the delay. When I started at Disney in 1979, the company still clung to Walt's long-standing policy of flying anyone in the company First Class. They sent little peon me to Chicago for a convention, and the stewardess came down the aisle with a rolling cart slicing steamship round of roast beef. Those days are gone like the Hindenburg. Oh, the humanity!

Flying is no longer glamorous for most of us. But I still enjoy people watching and listening in the airport. Best scene on this trip: two twenty-something women flounced by, and one was irritated with the other. She turned to her well-heeled friend and scowled, "Just because I like the Twilight movies doesn't mean I need therapy!" OMG, BFF.  

The wedding was beautiful, as all weddings are. Note the glorious seafoam beachy cake. And the morning of this wedding, my son called me from Israel to tell me that he and his girlfriend (also an American living in Israel) got engaged. Whew! What an emotional weekend. Of course, when it started, I was walking miles in the Dallas airport and eating steamed vegetables and brown rice. By Sunday I was shoving down coconut M & M's and soft pretzels dipped in butter and cinnamon sugar--all with diet Coke, of course.

By the time I headed back Sunday night I was exhausted, but I kept looking out the window. I always get a window seat. Well, I learned something more on this trip: my bladder now would much prefer the aisle. In between awkward treks to the bathroom, I looked dreamily out the window. We were flying west, so it was sunset skies all the way. How slowly we seemed to pass the patchwork quilt of farms and the shapeshifter clouds. I don't know why everything seems to go by in slow motion when you are flying 600 mph at 35,000 feet. I do know if we were on the ground at that speed, everything would be a blur. Something to do with perspective. And perspective is the key to so much. I realized that flying on a plane is yet another metaphor for life: it seems to be going by at a slow, leisurely pace--and yet, the years are zooming by. Wasn't I on that 747 yesterday? How could I have a son now engaged to be married? How did I go from zero to 60 so fast? Watch out. Don't take a second for granted. It could happen to you, too.

Are you CAUTIOUS?

Okay, I admit it. My husband and I eat our heart-healthy dinners in the kitchen in front of Katie Couric or Brian Williams. This puts us in the demographic of old farts who still get their news on TV instead of Twitter. The advertisers know us. That's why the ads are for medications to make bladders behave, control cholesterol, relax restless legs, and my favorite: decide to have sex while sitting in those footed bathtubs looking out over a field. It is obvious that the people writing these ads are not our age. Otherwise they would realize that even if you did manage to get into those bathtubs, you'd never be able to get out.

We try to hit MUTE when the ads come on, but sometimes we can't find the remote in time. So we get stuck listening not only to the advertisement, but to the possible side effect warnings. They are hilarious! This is all part of what my husband calls the "Lawyers' Full Employment Act."

But of all the ludicrous caveats, the one that really gets me is the one that says you should "use caution when performing unsafe acts."

Is it me--or isn't this some kind of oxymoron (moron being the key word here...)? Doesn't performing an unsafe act preclude caution from the get-go?

What do they mean? Don't try to get out of those bathtubs without a paramedic present? Don't swing from chandeliers without a safety net below? Don't go grocery shopping without wiping the cart with one of those hand sanitizer wipes?

I guess which unsafe acts you should use caution performing is a personal thing.

For Larry King, it could be: don't drop your suspenders for your wife's sister without a prenup. For BP, it's: don't drill for oil unless you have a better plan for stopping a leak than stuffing the hole with golf balls. You get the idea. I guess for me and Erik it's: don't eat broccoli without taking Beano first. When you fart instead of Twitter, I guess you know you are in the correct network news demographic.

This Woman Deserves to Go Viral!

I am too busy to blog a new, brilliantly funny post right now, but I can always depend on the hysterical Jessica Bern. In my lists of blogs I love to follow on the right, I call it The Funniest Mom Blog Ever. How can you resist a blog whose subtitle is: "Read this blog and I promise you'll never have to meet my family?"

If you haven't yet signed up for her blog, Bernthis (as in Jessica Bern), you should. I am so glad I stopped working long enough to watch Jessica on this gray May afternoon. Here goes:



Thank you, Jessica for giving us another reason to laugh! If you are a single mom, mom, stepmom, grandmom, a woman...if you are alive--sign up as a follower on http://www.bernthis.com/!

Perfect Pitch Parenting

It is the day after Mother's Day, 2010. I have just finished walking the dog with my extra thick sunglasses and tears behind them. My mother Jeannette, who was about as perfect as a mother could be, died in 1990 at 75 of cancer. I was 40 at the time, busy with my young twins and husband, but I flew the red eye to be there. There was never a day when I didn't talk to her on the phone for about a hour. But that day my sister and I left Johns Hopkins bereft of the woman who was the center of our lives. I clutched my mother's purse on my lap. I looked inside and found her prescription sunglasses. I put them on and winced. How bad could her eyes have been? The prescription was so strong I could see nothing but blur. I gently put them back in their case and took them home with me, shoving them in a drawer.

Years later I found the glasses and put them on. Yep. By then I could see through them perfectly. They are big and round ("Jackie O" style). I wear them when I drive and walk around persistently sunny California. I wear them because not only can I see well with them; when I wear them, I play a kind of spiritual game. I pretend that when I put on my mother's glasses, somehow she can see all the amazing things she missed: her twin grandsons grown into bright, capable young men. Her daughter winning writing awards. Her son-in-law winning teaching awards. Her other daughter receiving kudos as a food writer and cooking teacher and living a beautiful life on a horse farm with five talented grandchildren, Jeannette's great grandchildren. A grandson becoming a doctor...on and on stretch the list of the missed wonders. I put on those thick dark glasses and hope she can see it all.

My mother loved baseball. On summer nights she listened to games on the radio. To me, the sounds of night baseball were soothing lullabies. The melodies began in Brooklyn with her beloved Dodgers. Then when my father died so young, and we moved to Baltimore, I fell asleep to the Orioles' night music. Yesterday I heard about a young pitcher who pitched a perfect game on Mother's Day. You don't have to love baseball to love the story. His mother died when he was a senior in high school, so Dallas Braden was raised by his grandmother, who was there yesterday when he pitched his perfect game.

For those unfamiliar with the sport, this is a rare feat. Only 19 other major league pitchers have ever pitched a perfect game. 27 batters up; 27 down. He wore his mother's wedding ring around his neck and kissed it before he embraced his grandmother and then faced his overjoyed teammates.

This is my perfect pitch for Mother's Day, 2010, the day after. I want to thank that young pitcher. I hope my mother saw the game, too. She would have loved it. Today I raise my/her glasses to all the mothers who nurture human seeds, the most delicate of all growing things, but do not live long enough to see the results of their loving care. I suppose that's the idea behind sending flowers, but next year, maybe just send a baseball... 

What I Really Want for Mother's Day

Here it comes again, courtesy of Hallmark: Mother's Day. So this is an open letter to my sons. I don't want a bouquet of flowers. They wilt, and I love growing my own. I don't want an expensive musical card because it's a waste of money. I don't want a cheap card either, because that's just tacky. I'm not into jewelry. I'm on Weight Watchers so dinner is out.

Here's what I want. It's called "The Hora Chair." Somebody invented it for Jewish weddings and Bar/Bat Mitzvahs when they hoist the brides, grooms, etc. up in the air. This way no one gets a hernia or falls off. Easy to lift and has a seat belt. It's only $479 plus $80 to ship. Some assembly required. It even comes in pink.

You could both come home to the empty nest and carry me around all day in style. Okay you might need to bring a few friends because I'm not as slim as I used to be, but I'm still way under the 300-pound weight limit.

Well, guys, what do you think? Am I "chair worthy?" Consider it an investment. When you finally do choose your brides and get married, we can haul it out again. I'm sure Dad won't mind storing it in the garage. They even have a "protective cover" accessory. And I bet we'd be the first on the block to have one.

Don't you think all moms deserve this "Diva Chair" for Mother's Day?

Goodbye, Catalog Diva!

When I began blogging, I chose the name Catalog Diva because my posts were related to items I saw in catalogs. I thought this title/topic would not only distinguish my blog, but bring me advertisers, a retirement fund and a movie with Meryl Streep as me. To date I have earned $3.72 from Amazon. And shockingly, Meryl's agent has yet to call.

I still find the occasional catalog item that sparks a fun idea, but more and more I find that what I really want to write about is whatever I damn well please. Hence the new title of my old blog. Musings from Me, a woman of a certain age.

There are days I feel thirty. I watch The Daily Show. I even laugh at South Park if I catch it. But on some days I feel like I'm standing in line for the Smuckers Jar. Like when I get "friended" on Facebook. I so do not understand Facebook. When people "friend me," I always say yes, because I don't want to be "unfriended-ly." On the rare occasions that I see my own Facebook Page, I notice I have 39 friends. Some of them are people I even know. I thought having 39 friends was great, because in my "real life" (not my cyber life), that would be a lot of people to have for dinner. Then I noticed other people have 300-800 friends and more. So are the number of friends you have on Facebook now like the SAT scores that give your social quotient? If true, I am sadly deficient.  

Another Smuckers Jar revelation: I don't have a Blackberry or an iphone. The only important thing in my life with an "i" is my sister Ilene. I don't know what I would do with an iphone or ipad, but I'd be lost without Ilene. She puts up with me no matter what. Is there an "ap" for that? 

My darling husband, who is very tech savvy, doesn't have a lot of tech gadgets either. When people send him an email that says "Sent from my Blackberry," he sends back an answer that says: "Sent from two tin cans and a string." He is a funny guy. Advice for women of a certain age: sleeping with your tech guy is good thing. I'm glad I "friended" him 30 years ago.

Dishing Up Schadenfreude for Tiger!

Schadenfreude (SHOD-en-froyd) is a German word that means, roughly, taking joy in someone else's misfortune. For most women the Tiger Woods thing has gotten old, but I have to admit that hearing that Tiger lost the big match today tasted delicious. I bet Schadenfreude is a little like Weiner Schnitzel, pictured here. Crispy, hot and fried just right.

Those Germans! Here's another one that Tiger should know: Drachenfutter. (DROCK-uhn-foot-er) Literally, the word means "dragon fodder, or dragon food." Figuratively, the word means "gifts from a guilty person." In Germany, it was common to see men drinking in bars or cafes on Saturday afternoon with their Drachenfutter already bought and wrapped in anticipation of their homecoming.

I got this great word from one of my favorite books, now out of print: They Have A Word For It by Howard Rheingold.

For schnitzeling around with his wiener, Tiger's gonna pay Drachenfutter big time. Ah, Schadenfreud. Elin, we're all feeling it, babe!

Intestinal Fortitude

It's been a while since I actually used a catalog item for an article. But the latest Solutions Catalog inspired me. When I began my television writing career years ago, my mentor told me two things to remember: chicken singing is always funny and don't tell fart jokes. Chicken singing is still funny. And fart jokes? They used to be for fourth graders, but since just about everything on TV or the movies is now at a fourth grade level, fart references abound. And let's face it: farts sound funny--especially when they come from someone else. Laughing at your own farts takes steely self-confidence. And when you do laugh at them, it usually makes you fart more--like a gassy "laugh track" to your own joke.

Back to Solutions. Page 51 of the current catalog has a new product called SUBTLE BUTT: disposable gas neutralizers. These are described as "antimicrobial pads" to stick to your underwear ("even thongs")...and neutralize the odor of gas with an "activated carbon layer," thereby sparing you embarrassment.

First off, I don't believe that women who wear thongs ever fart. They don't eat enough. (And if they do, they probably shouldn't be wearing thongs.) Second, five of these disposable pads cost $9.95. Whew! Better save them for a meeting in the Oval Office. Third, although I admit odor can be a problem, this does not solve my fart issue. It's not that I think my farts don't stink. They sometimes do, but I find this easy to get away with--because the truth is...nobody really knows who did it...right? Everyone is a suspect.

One of the foibles of aging is lack of control of the muscles that we used to be able to discreetly "squeeze." I mean, who farted when you were on a date in your 20's? You could hold it in for days, right? There must be sphincter exercises you can do like Kegels, but those never worked for me either.

It isn't the smell that's my nemesis--it's the noise! I don't need disposable odor neutralizers: I need a rear muffler! I already thought of a great name for them: Tush Shssssh. All I need is an inventor and some venture capital. If you think this is a good idea, and you have some money, please contact me immediately. Farts may be funny, but they could be a serious business! Who's with me?

Need Movie Review? Flush!

Thank heaven for ladies' rooms. Especially at the movies. Once your movie lets out, every woman dashes there, and in between the flushes and rolling paper, you often hear salient discussions of the movie that just ended. I am sure men do not discuss the movie over the urinals. But in the ladies' room, listening to anonymous comments as you piddle is like watching the extra features on a DVD. Fun, and often instructive.

For instance, last night we went to see The Ghostwriter, Roman Polanski's latest film. I had read some amazing reviews, describing the film as suspenseful and "Hitchcockian." Reviewers don't usually toss Hitch around lightly, so I figured it must be good. Plus, it wasn't at the multiplex, but at the "art house" which also has an impressive concession array. More than Goobers, Dots, and popcorn. They have Dots and popcorn, of course, but also herbal tea, flavored coffee and cream cheese filled hot pretzels. I did not eat any, but knowing they were there made me feel confident that this was a movie for people like me: plump and intelligent.

So we got seats at exactly the perfect part of the theatre (not too far up, not too far back, centered). We watched, and I tried to understand it. Really I did. I kept waiting for all the "twists" and "double punches" a reviewer had mentioned, especially the one at the end. The foreboding dunes, the cold New England rain and the music...especially the music: these effects convinced me that there was a sinister plot twist coming any second now. Wait for it. Wait for it. I kept waiting. The gray, misty, stormy scenery made the film seem black and white even though it was in color, and thus did remind me of Rebecca, one of my all time favorite Hitchcock flicks. Soon the twists were coming...any second. But when the surprise came at the end, it was one of those "What?" moments for me. I didn't get it. My husband said he did, but husbands will never admit if they don't get it. 

I was saved from my incomprehensibility in the place it is always best to do so: a safe haven where you can keep your stupidity anonymous--the ladies' room. When I entered the stall, some women were already discussing the film. I jumped into the fray. "Why did she do it?" I asked to someone out there. One unseen but savvy "stall-mate" called out an answer. "Remember the part where they said she always gave her husband advice? Well, that's why..." she went on. Now I got it!

By the time I flushed, my movie mentor was gone, but as I washed my hands, I realized that without this ladies' room discusssion, I would have thought I was an idiot who couldn't get this sophisticated "smart" film. Now I realized that I didn't get it because there wasn't much to get. The big end surprise was that there was no surprise.

Instead of reading reviews, maybe I should start going to the ladies' room after the last show lets out, before my movie starts. Women know their movies. Unless it has George Clooney, but if it's got Clooney, I'm with them: who cares about the plot?

The Art of Being a Mother

I just returned from an inspiring first grade "art exhibit" night at a local public school. Since public schools no longer have art teachers, the first grade teachers developed their own art program. They spend four weeks teaching the kids about Van Gogh, Matisse, Picasso, and O'Keefe. The children learn about the artists, and finally they imitate each one by re-creating their own versions of famous paintings. The room was full of kids literally all dressed up with no place to go--except where the cookies were. Parents snapped away with cell phones and digital devices. I have no grandchildren yet, so my friend Bonne (who has 5) takes me along to these things. We call it my B.I.T. project: Bubbie-In-Training. Her grandson Noah was supposed to be our docent, but it was obvious the kid wanted to be elsewhere. He was a dervish looking for a place to whirl.

Noah finally pointed out his self-portrait in the style of Van Gogh. Then his mother Judith tried to get him to stand still long enough for a picture in front of it. She held up her camera and counted "one...two...THREE!" She did this several times. Each time she got to "THREE," Noah jumped up the air, flailing his arms and gleefully ruining the photo. Judith was completely cool about it. I would have been pissed and yelling at him to stop being such a pip. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I asked Judith why she kept letting Noah mess up all the pictures. With a twinkle in her eye, she explained: "Oh, he thinks he is so clever, but he is my son. He can't outsmart me. I snap on "TWO!"

So tonight I learned something new about the art of mothering from a young woman who is obviously a master!

The Ultimate Junk Food

I want to get down to the weight on my license. I want to stop hiding my chins in photos or asking the photographer to snap my picture while standing on a ladder--because when you aim the camera down, it doesn't show chins. I want to buy a box of 100-calorie Oreos and eat only one bag. I also want world peace.

I am a lifetime member of Weight Watchers, but the last time I was at my goal weight was 1983. I have been going to Weight Watchers on and off since I was 14 years old. I remember the original program when you had to eat fish seven times a week and liver once a week. There were no frozen diet foods. There were no Weight Watcher desserts. But deep-fried Twinkies hadn't been invented yet either.

I used to find Weight Watchers easy. The weight would slip right off. That was B.M. -- yep...Before Menopause. Like the Toyotas that won't stop, my metabolism won't start. Also I am a yo-yo mama. I walk, swim, eat broccoli and fruit salad, lose a few pounds and then gain them back by not walking, swimming, eating broccoli or fruit salad. 

This morning I went back to Weight Watchers. (I am sure I hold the record for starting over more times than any living Weight Watcher.) My friend Bonne came with me, and she has just lost 30 pounds by sticking with the program for more than 40 weeks! I wish I could tell you that Bonne is 26 years old, and it was easy for her, but it ain't so. She's my age; she's a gourmet cook, and she cooks big meals every weekend. She did it! And so I am gonna use her as inspiration and try again.

After Bonne got her well-deserved ovation for her achievement, and I got my 347th new Weight Watcher book, we went shopping. We stopped at Big Lots, because you never know what you are going to find there. Today I found the yin and yang of junk foods. There was an entire aisle of POP TARTS: whole grain Pop Tarts; Pop Tarts with fiber added! Imagine that: a healthy Pop Tart. What an oxymoron! But this was the capper: the ultimate POP TART: Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Pop Tarts. Yes. Really. And if you think I didn't want to buy a box to sit in bed and eat them (no toasting necessary), you haven't caught on to my craziness yet. I did not buy them, but obviously I am still thinking about them--and sometimes it's the thought (unfortunately) that counts!

If You Give A Shopper A Sale...

I have a dear friend who is an expert estate sale/garage sale shopper. She has yet not purchased the item for $2 that turns out to be worth $350,000 on Antiques Roadshow, but she has furnished her home with lovely, stylish things. A few weeks ago our elderly neighbors across the street moved out and into an assisted living complex. They called this week to tell me they were having an estate sale at their home on Friday. I have been at their house many times. They are a wonderful couple in their 80's, and they had many quality items from a lifetime of travel. I called Nancy C., Estate Sale Queen, but she couldn't make it. I am a rank amateur.

My office faces their house. The time was set for 10 a.m. I was working on my computer. At precisely 9:55 a.m., cars arrived as if descending from an alien cloud. I couldn't resist. I had to look. People were already schlepping boxes, furniture and bags of Antiques Roadshow-worthy items. There was a book for sale I probably should have nabbed earlier: Know Your Antiques.

In the corner of the living room was something I had often admired when visiting. It was a virtually new electronic keyboard. Macon, the owner, had only used it twice; plus it was the kind with all the bells and whistles--rhumba, tango, waltz backgrounds and so on. The picture here gives you an idea; his was even fancier.

I have always wanted to be a figure skater, and I also have always wanted to play piano. I cannot read a note of music. But just the way I imagine myself gracefully gliding on ice and being lifted in the air by Evan Lysacek, I visualize myself sitting down and playing effortlessly. The keyboard had a price tag of $60, which was a great deal. And for me, a good neighbor and friend, he would practically give it to me for $40! I was ready to buy, but then I paused.

If I bought the keyboard, I'd have to pay for lessons, and I'd have to buy books for my lessons. Then I'd have to invite people over for recitals. So I'd have to buy folding chairs. Of course, I'd have to buy yummy appetizers for them to eat while they were listening. So I'd have to get snack tables and classy paper plates and napkins. And so many would be clamoring to hear me, we'd need a bigger house...and yeah, it would be like buying the mouse a cookie.

And if that scenario didn't materialize, there was the other one: the keyboard would sit in the garage with the rest of the stuff I don't use. I wonder what these things say to each other at night? The electronic keyboard might turn to the electric fountain (which makes me want to pee when I plug it in) and say: Of all the gin joints and garages in the world, I had to get put in this one. Tacky garden decor, Beatles albums and a complete set of Weird Al Yankovic VHS tapes. Bummer, man.

In the end I decided to let my other neighbor buy the keyboard. This is the neighbor who has a pool table in her den, so I figure maybe someday she'll be selling that. I have no idea how to play pool, but if I get a good deal, it might be fine. Then I'd need that chalk stuff. And the rack for the sticks. And if it ended up in the garage, it would be a great place for folding laundry.

Olympic Bloggers

I have to admit it. There are people who are more clever, witty and creative than I am. A few. And one of them is Jessica Bern, a single parent who has been blogging, doing one-woman shows, creating videos and making me laugh for several years. Her website, BernThis, has this as a subtitle: Read this blog and I promise you won't have to meet my family. Inspired! And this week she has added hilarity to the Olympics by creating her own Olympic events. Please take a moment and watch this:


Jessica has inspired me to invent and win my own Olympic event: THE BATTLE OF THE 1/2 PRICE VALENTINE CANDY. Those of you who follow my blog know I have already begun to cross-train for this event by abstaining from cake. Usually, every February 15, I head to the closest drug store, get a cart and start down the 1/2 price candy aisle. The first to jump me are usually the Junior Mints and the Hershey mini bars. They wrestle me to the ground. Then dark chocolate cherries catapult into the cart followed by anything with the name Ghiradelli on it.

But this week I did it! I did NOT go to the drugstore. I actually ate an apple. An apple! OMG. I am giving myself the GOLD. If Bob Costas interviews me, I can look him in those big brown eyes and truthfully say that I did not inject myself with processed sugar on February 15!

Today I went in for a prescription and held my breath as I took a cautious sideway glance at the demonic aisle. Everything was already gone. I did it! I won! Time to train for the 1/2 PRICE "PEEPS" POST EASTER EVENT. I can do it! USA! USA! 

Please add your own Olympic events in the comments below! And do yourself a favor by subscribing to http://www.bernthis.com/.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Erik and I have been married 30 years, and we are rarely apart. This week, however, the high school where he teaches technology sent him on a rare two-day trip to Phoenix. The reason: the school has purchased a laser engraving system so they can make their own plaques, trophies, etc. They sent Erik and the shop industrial arts teacher to train them on using the system. I love my husband, and I love what he made me for Valentine's Day. You can't find it in a catalog. You will note that he engraved some of my favorite sayings, a vase that says "Happy Valentine's Day, Susan 2010" (which is already filled with daffodils blooming in my garden right now)! The tote bag says "Susan loves Erik" over "Erik loves Susan." (Well, he does teach high school...) And last but not least, the mug holder with my mug on it! He also brought me a necklace, but that's going back. He isn't as talented in picking out jewelry as he is in shop industrial arts. But that's okay. He's a real gem and the only one I need. Happy Love Day all! If you can't be with the one you love...you know the rest.

Ay, Caramba! Where's the Cake?

I am back to my weight B.C. -- Before Cake. Back to eating fresh fruits and vegetables, watching salt intake, wearing my pedometer and yada, yada, yada. The first week I lost 3.5 pounds, a big victory for me. I almost ate cake to celebrate! Then I lost another pound this week. My husband, on the "program" with me, lost FIVE. Damn it! Why do men always lose so fast? Yeah, I know, it's the muscle mass thing, but it's so irritating!

We did successfully return the calorie calculator. Now I am itching to buy something else. Like a talking scale. Wouldn't that be fun? They even have one that says things like, "It's a good thing I can talk, 'cause you probably can't see me" or "Is somebody else on here with you?" Nah. An insulting scale would get old pretty fast. Besides I am not so shallow that I want to obsess about numbers. Oh, no. I'm in it for health, longevity and so if a policeman ever stops me, he won't think I am driving with someone else's license.

However, I did find a nifty and chic item, available on Amazon. This Talking English/Spanish Bathroom Scale American says your weight in Spanish or English. I like this idea. I could get my weight and a Spanish lesson at the same time. Improve my body and my mind; nothing shallow in that. And I am sure whatever my weight is, it would sound better in another language.

My husband still keeps one recording of a message I left on his cell phone. It was a day during the summer when I was going crazy on a writing deadline. All you hear is me screaming, "CAKE! I NEED CAKE!" Maybe it isn't as scandalous as the messages left by Tiger Wood's mistress, but it is definitely one of those moments when my true self was revealed. 

Okay, so I probably won't buy the scale. As long as I don't buy cake, I'm good for another day. 

National Wear Red Day

It is often said that the way we face adversity shows our true character. I will extrapolate and say that when you are an inveterate shopper, what you don't buy reveals your true grit. This snow globe is something I am not buying; but I really, really want to. I'm not buying it because it is a dust-catching tschotcke, and I don't need it. But I really, really want it! It's the Go Red Snow Globe with the signature red dress to remind us that heart disease is still the Number One killer of women. That's right. It's not breast cancer. I guess boobs are sexier, no matter what. (I say this with no disrepect to the Susan Komen Foundation, which does miraculous things for breast cancer awareness.) But I am glad that the Red Dress Campaign has tremendously raised women's awareness of heart disease.

I was shocked by my own vulnerability in October, 2006. So I will remember to wear red tomorrow, Friday, February 6 for National Wear Red Day. I don't need a fancy snow globe, although it is cute, isn't it? I can throw on a red turtleneck. Those of you on the East Coast might want to throw on some red snow boots.

Now I try to eat right and exercise. Go to the American Heart Association web site for terrific advice on what this means. One of the things it means is watching your sodium. That is almost harder for me to give up than...cake! Some nutritionists feel we should eliminate all sodium. Zilch. Zero. Try to find anything in a box or can with NO sodium (or even under 150 mg. per serving). The only way to achieve it is to empty the contents and eat the package.

I recently heard a well-respected nutritionist give a lecture on the evils of salt. He said there are now studies that show a definitive correlation between excessive salt consumption and Alzheimer's. To me the thought of imminent senility is far scarier than death. Dropping dead? I can live with that. But I already have trouble remembering where I park the car. And the other day I emailed my son, who was going to meet a dignitary. After I pressed "send," I realized I had written: "Remember to shake his eye and look him in the hand." 

Yessir. Time for me to start watching those sodium labels! Skip the chips during the Super Bowl. Wear red tomorrow and love your heart!

Back in The Saddle Again

My name is Susan and I am a cake-aholic. Cake is what they call my "trigger" food. If I ate as much cake as I could, I would soon weigh as much as Roy Rogers' horse. My sister, the gourmet, doesn't get it. She cannot see how I can stand to eat "store bought" cake. It's simple: I never met a cake I didn't like. However, I realize my love of obsession with cake is battering my attempts to appear on the Smuckers Jar of life. So once again I have begun a healthy eating and exercise plan. This week I lost 2.5 pounds. This is a big weight loss for a less than five-footer like me. In Weight Watchers they call this "water weight." In my case, it was pure cake weight.

 Every time I embark on a diet healthy eating regimen, I have to buy something. This makes my husband nuts. This time it was a calorie calculator. I ordered it from Amazon and swore that I could set it up myself. After one hour and a half entering the "basic information" such as my height, current weight, goal weight, etc., I thought I had passed the worst.Then I tried entering what I ate for the day. OMG. A bowl of oatmeal took 20 minutes. Who do they design these keys for: Tinker Bell? Back in the box it went. Whew. Only lost $6 shipping on this one.

The only weight loss healthy lifestyle gadget that always works for me is my trusty Omron HJ-112 Digital Pocket Pedometer. (Only $23 at Amazon.)I put this baby in my pocket and strive for 10,000 steps per day. It's the only health gadget I haven't returned or thrown away. It works great, and it even automatically resets to zero every night at midnight. It reminds me that every day is a new one. Even for cake addicts, it's one day at a time.

When I went on Amazon to pull up the picture to post here, Amazon's all-knowing elves told me that I had bought mine on October 11, 2006. That was six days after my first (and so far only) heart attack. You'd think that would have been enough to get me off cake for good, wouldn't you?

The gizmo I would really like to find is the calculator that would tell me how many times I have already lost the same 2.5 pounds. On second thought, I don't want to know the answer. It would just trigger another round of Little Debbies.

Catalogs Drive Real Estate Dreams

Haiti. The Massachusetts election. Haiti. Rain on the Golden Globes. Haiti. Dog Bites Firefighter Saving Dog's Life. Haiti. And so it went. Not a great week to even think about a catalog. Then came the Supreme Court's decision on corporations. Now all I can think about is one catalog in particular: the Vermont Country Store.

I Wanna Live in the Vermont Country Store

I wanna live in the pages of the Vermont Country Store.

I simply can't live in the real world no more.

I want to fill up my ears with Vermont Maple Butters

And never hear another word that Sarah Palin utters.

In the VC Store I can buy Camay and Lifebuoy soap,

To wash the mouths of those who tell another Tiger joke.

I can eat Sky Bars and Chuckles and Mallo Cups till I'm full.

I'll sit on chenille bedspreads; wear socks of No-Itch merino wool.
Creamy Lobster Bisque and chowders will keep away the cold.
Health care is now up to the guy who did the nude centerfold.
(So who cares if my arteries explode?)

A Circulation Toner firms me up without me moving a muscle.
Life is good in VCS land: no texting, no blogging, no hustle.
I want to live at the Vermont Country Store.
That's all there is; there isn't any more.

My Book of Why

Being a children's writer, I often find great "why" books. It's always fun to find good books with simple explanations to the infinite mysteries of childhood such as: Why do I sneeze?  Why is the sky blue? Why do worms come out when it rains? Why do stars twinkle? I often find these question books in catalogs. This is a great one I just ordered from Amazon.

I wish I had time to write a question/answer book for kids my age. I have plenty of questions, but no decent answers. Don't you ever wonder:

• Why do eyebrows go gray first?
• Why is it always a mistake to switch to the short check-out line?
• Why does it hurt so much when the clerk calls you "M'am?"
• When did you first notice the backs of your elbows resemble elephant skin?
• What made you think you would enjoy your high school reunion?
• Why do young, hunky men have no interest in you unless you are in cardiac arrest?
• Why don't you have the guts to ask the foreign manicurists what they are laughing at?
• Why would Jamie Lee Curtis need to eat yogurt to have a B.M.?
• What are the odds of you making it to the Smuckers jar on the Today Show? (Would these odds improve if you ate that yogurt?)

Please send me your own queries. Maybe we can do a book... Why not?

Princesses, Frogs and Boys

I needed to see Disney's new "Princess and The Frog" movie for my work. Lacking my own grandchildren, I invited my friend Bonne and her six-year-old grandson Noah to go. Yeah, I know anything with the word princess in the title is probably a chick flick, but that's part of Disney's genius. They usually manage to please all genders. I figured a boy's reaction would be interesting. When not-yet-princess Tiana started belting like Susan Boyle about her dreams and how she was going to work to make them come true, Noah was pretty fidgety. But once the physical jokes came along, he got into it. Then came the part with the "voodoo" black magic. There was a scary villain and even scarier voodoo heads, a talisman that needed blood to work, and dark shadows with long arms to reach out and "getcha." Frankly, I was a bit creeped out myself. 

Every time the black shadows came slithering across the screen, Bonne leaned over and said to Noah, "You know this is all make-believe, don't you?" He nodded yes. I was glad Bonne took the lead in this, because I think I needed reminding, too.

When the movie was over, I hoped the black magic scenes had not marred him for life. When asked his opinion of the movie, Noah said it was a good movie about "two frogs who fell in love and got married in Bugland." This kid could be the next Ebert. Then he asked for quarters to play the video games in the lobby. I accompanied him. He went directly to the game with the life-size hunting rifle attached. He slid in the quarters, put the rifle on his shoulder and began shooting as if he were in "Deliverance." Realistic screams and groans came from the speakers; heads and other body parts exploded with buckets of blood. Noah racked up a high score. The kid couldn't get enough of it. The moral of this story: when it comes to boys who ultimately turn into men and not frogs, they still do the voodoo that they do so well.

P.S.
To make sure I work in this town again, I want to say that The Princess and The Frog is a wonderful flick. It's a delight to see hand-drawn animation again. The re-creation of New Orleans is charming and the music is so dancy-dancy, you long for more of it. My mouse ears especially go off to Disney for their emphasis on the theme that wishing on a star is not enough--you have to work to make dreams come true. Although the film technique is retro, that message is very today.

Digital Immigrant Confronts Digital Decade

Twenty ten. Don't say two thousand and ten because that would take too long. Our kids are digital natives; we are the immigrants. They can text with their thumbs faster than I can pick my nose with my pinky. We are the greenhorns, trying to speak the new digital babble. Some days I feel so out of it, I can practically feel a babushka on my head. Except this time the new country came to me, instead of me having to cross an ocean. In my country I spell "anytime" the old way. The text spelling is "netym." Big improvement, huh? But I am learning. I know what OMG and LOL mean. Some acronyms still stump me. Is BFF Best Friend Forever or Big Fat Face? 

One of the biggest catalog items this year was the voice-activated coffee-maker. I like the idea, since buttons and digital settings are beyond my grasp. (I wonder if ones made in different countries respond to different languages...) Yet with all the amazing gadgets that were designed in the "digital decade," they still have not perfected a voice-activated television remote. We recently got the Sony Bravia 52-inch TV and let me tell you, Simon Baker (The Mentalist) is even more adorable in that size. (I hear from people who have seen him on location that this may be life-size for him.) The problem is that we now have the digital box, the DVD, etc. We also live in an "over 50" community that includes Turner Classic Movies in its basic cable. (Many residents don't remember anything that happened after 1949.) I have always been an old movie buff. But once we got the fancy schmancy TV, I couldn't figure out how to find TCM on it.

Today, on his last day of vacation, my techie husband Erik made up his mind that he would teach me how to find TCM on the big screen. It's just a matter of handling the remotes, he said. He called me into the living room, sat me down in front of the TV and handed me this chart. 

I tried to follow the directions. Honest, I did. I got video showing Bing Crosby dancing next to Fred Astaire, but the audio had them on the 20 yard line, third down with seconds to go in the third quarter. There I was with my babushka again. I felt nostalgic for rabbit ears with tin foil on them.

 Fortunately, I still have a voice-activated husband. "Fix it," I said. And he did. He got Fred Astaire off the goal line in time for Bing Crosby to sing "Blue Skies." Speaking of rabbit ears, did you ever see the loppers on Crosby? Give me Simon Baker's twinkly eyes netym.