Think Dream Play

Baggy skin? Who ya gonna call?

2013-05-17T05:30:00.000-07:00

So I was reading about how to battle baggy skin, for no particular reason, which is good, because in her article titled, “How to Deal with Baggy Skin,” Jillian Michaels, the toughest trainer you ever saw, essentially says hang it up.

Oh! Pardon my choice of words. You can’t take that literally! That would be painful.

Jillian says, extremely tactfully, that if you have baggy skin, on your elbows, say, just look somewhere else. Look at your knees, for example. Oops. Well. Look at someone else’s knees. Someone who’s a lot younger than you are with skin that’s not so baggy.

I guess what she’s saying is just pretend that other person’s knees are your knees.

It’s a bit of the old bait and switch that every mom used on every child who fixated on the gummy bears in the grocery checkout line. “Oh, look Honey! Look way over there at the big juicy red apples.”

Yeah. It probably won’t work now, either. Saggy knees and elbows are their own little train wreck of a phenomenon. No matter how horrified you are, you just can’t look away.

But to give her credit, Jillian doesn’t mean literally to avert your eyes from your drapey, saggy elbows. That’s actually my idea. It’s not as good as long sleeved shirts, but it can be useful if you are on a tight timeline and must not be drawn down the rabbit hole of terror and dread at what next year will bring.

Maybe you’ve heard the one about the 80-year-old man who went to the doctor for his checkup. After a series of thumps, bumps and probes, the doc says, “I’ve got some bad news and some worse news. Which would you like first?”

The elderly gentleman draws a brave breath and says, “I’ll take the worst news first, Doc.” To which the doctor replies, “You have an advanced stage of cancer that is untreatable. Nothing we can do for you. It’s bad. It’s real bad.”

The man shakes his head in dismay and says, “Wow. That is terrible news. Unbelievable. I’m shocked. I’m numb.”

Then, he pulls himself together and says, “OK, I’m ready for the bad news now.”

The doc says, “You have advanced dementia.”

“Oh! Thank goodness!” cries the man. “I thought you were going to tell me I had cancer.”

But unlike the doctor above, Jillian claims to have good news to go with her bad news.

It reads like this: She fields a plaintive question from a devotee: Dear Jillian, I have excess skin after weight loss. What should I do?

“I hear this question all the time,” Jillian responds cheerily, perhaps from the cover of Fitness magazine. “And I have good news and bad news.”

Okay, Jillian! I can take it! Bad news first! What’s the bad news about my, er, this poor woman who wrote to you…what’s her bad news?

Now I don’t know if Jillian is one of those folks who just has to show off how much she knows, but she goes on and on and ON with way more than any old saggy-skinned woman really wants to hear about her predicament.

“The skin is an organ and not a rubber band,” she says. I don’t know how it comes through the printed word, but I distinctly heard a neener neener.

“Skin can only stretch and tighten so much over the course of a life of slothful indulgence.” OK, she didn’t say that. She would never say that. But I’m just sayin’.

“Sagging skin has nothing to do with how quickly you lose weight.” What? She did say that! I think when she was wearing another of those bare midriff workout outfits that are so inspiring.

No! The excess material you’ve been tucking into your spandex has everything to do with your genetics and age. The younger you are, the more collagen you have giving your skin its elasticity and ability to shrink after weight loss.

Hey thanks.

“Ready for the good news?” says airbrushed Jillian, her mane of luscious hair dipping coyly over her eye. “You are no longer unhealthy and obese!”

Right. Right! Thank God! I thought you were going to tell me I’m stuck with saggy skin.

Mind your own bucket list!

2013-05-10T18:02:00.002-07:00

George Carlin said he wasn’t afraid of being dead, just getting dead.

But nowadays, many of us seem to expect an empty dance card after we cross the threshold. How else can we account for the rise of the “bucket list”? Gotta cram in a lot of living, because once you’re dead…Well! Nothing to do.

As an aside - An easy way out of this conundrum is to adopt a belief in reincarnation. Takes the pressure off. Plenty of time to get to Niagara Falls.

Of course that approach could be disastrous for procrastinators.

Anyway, we’re inundated with these lists. Sure, we all want to see the Great Wall. Fair enough. Go hot air ballooning? OK.

But the other day I got one of those email chain letters containing someone else’s bucket list, apparently as a yardstick asking, “What have you done in your life anyway?”

This one admonishes me to “Play along - Whether you've done this before or not, be a good sport! Do it again.”

Of course, being a good sport is on my bucket list - my list of things I really must get around to sometime when I’m not such a crab.

And after all, it’s so simple to join the fun: Just place an X by all the things you've done on this list, and remove the X from the ones you have not yet done, (but like any normal person must be hankering to do). Then, and this is where I came in, send it on to at least six of your do-nothing friends.

But this isn’t a compilation of exhilarating activities or thrilling locales for which the human spirit yearns. This one’s more a chronicle of stuff the originator of the chain has done over the course of his life reflecting everything from the mundane to “Really? You really hope to do that before you die?”

No, this a “look what I’ve done that you probably haven’t done list.” Or maybe it’s a “look at what I’ve done since I left the holler” list, shuffled together with “some things I saw pictures of in National Geographic.”

For example, the first thing on the list is “shot a gun” and the second is “gone on a blind date.” Now why these two things would be numbers one and two in a must-do catalog is hard to fathom, neither being all that life affirming, if memory serves.

Although, maybe if I’d had a gun back in the day, on that blind date, I could have discouraged the guy whom I’ve referred ever since as “Clammy Hands Hank.”

Another accidental pairing on the list is the juxtaposition of “skipped school” and “visited Canada.” As it turns out, I’ve done both. But my adolescent shenanigans and summer vacations don’t seem nearly as life altering as those of the guys from the ‘60’s who skipped school for the purpose of going to Canada. Put that on your bucket list.

I also checked off “camped in an RV” and “cried yourself to sleep,” though I doubt the list maker envisioned the cause-effect relationship that created that outdoor catastrophe.

Still, I’m playing along.

Let’s see. It’s probably an overstatement to claim my single sad attempt at “waterskiing” as “having a near death experience,” but I’m marking both those off anyway.

A couple of things on the list had me feeling wistful: Riding a Segway. No! Not really! Dog sledding…Ha ha! Just driving the point home.

It’s not my list! Maybe I’ll modify this list. You know, make it my own.

My wish? To go to some of these places without having to go through airport security.

I’d just like to whisk myself away to the Galapagos Islands without actually having to pack, commute to the airport, stand barefoot on the cold linoleum, be surveyed in a public x-ray while feeling liked a plucked chicken, wedge myself into the middle seat, and fly for 12 hours while making nice with someone else’s Aunt Julia and telling my bladder “no.”

So maybe my bucket list item is to live long enough to travel by transporter beam.

In short, I want to be there without having to get there. I think George Carlin would understand.

Fake money in the real world

2013-05-03T05:30:00.000-07:00

So someone just made up some Monopoly money and is spending it all over town.

Not only that, other people must think it’s cool or real money or something because now they’re hoarding it, stacking up this imaginary play dough in their fantasy bank accounts.

According to Bloomberg and the Wall Street Journal, this brand new currency is held mostly by speculators hoping to profit from price fluctuations, which have been especially volatile in recent weeks.

Real people are watching market variations on make-believe money.

Oh yeah. Virtual currency – “Bitcoins.”

I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. Bitcoins?!! Somebody made this stuff up and now he’s going to make billions of dollars in real coins and nobody told me until it was too late.

People are deep into buying, trading and even mining Bitcoins!

Dad gummit!

How can this happen? How can it be that someone, “a pseudonymous developer,” named “Satoshi Nakamoto” can just describe a “non-existent digital cash-like currency” and start spending it and buying real stuff with it!?

He made up his name and he made up some money and now he’s living in a virtual mansion on that famous “cloud” eating pie in the sky.

Dad GUMMIT!

“Bitcoins are exchanged peer-to-peer just like cash, making it the Internet’s trusted currency.” What? Says who?

Why the Bitcoin community of course. On the Bitcoin wiki, where you can go for all your Bitcoin information needs.

Those folks are happy to tell you that Bitcoin is an “experimental, decentralized digital currency that enables instant payments to anyone, anywhere in the world.” Translation: They made it up! They’re conducting an experiment.

And it’s working! They’re buying real jet skis with phony baloney.

There’s more: “Bitcoin uses peer-to-peer technology to operate with no central authority: managing transactions and issuing money are carried out collectively by the network.” Did you get that? “Issuing money.” Issuing money! In cyber space. Digitally. With zeroes and ones.

And with no central authority. It’s not that the cat’s away. There is no cat.

And when I think how my mom told me about the money tree and that it doesn’t exist, quashing my fragile imagination. My dad winched every time I looked at his wallet. Whenever I needed gas for the jalopy or a donut, he assured me there was only so much money, you know.

But now I’m learning how wrong they were. Bitcoin, an implementation of a concept called crypto-currency first described on the cypherpunks mailing list in 1998, is crankin’ out the moolah.

It’s a flippin’ concept. It’s a spendable concept. Crypto-currency? Cypherpunks? They probably wear saggy cyber-pants.

But you have to give them credit, if you’ll pardon the pun. Building on the notion that “money is any object, or any sort of record, accepted as payment for goods and services,” these guys created Bitcoin using cryptography to build their own virtual treasury.

It makes me so mad. Why didn’t I think of it? After all, it’s only a step or two away from the persnickety self-righteous record of stars and demerits I awarded my brother according to his treatment of me. It was an 8-year-old’s idea of behavior modification, but he could have traded it for goods. I would have swapped my scoop of ice cream, for example, for some peace and a few stars off his chart.

But no! He had to twist it. He just started popping me with rubber bands and saying, “Add that to your little book!”

Thus ended my future as a visionary entrepreneur in the marketplace.

You can see why I’m so frustrated to learn that eBay and PayPal may soon integrate Bitcoins into their networks of buying and selling. John Donahoe, chief executive of eBay, says that within five years, Bitcoin could be converted to cash and used in retail. It’s already accepted on a few sites like Reddit and WordPress, as well as Pizzaforcoins.com.

See. That’s just wrong, getting pizza for Bitcoins.

And why isn’t it counterfeit? How are they getting away with making up money and spending it? I want some free money!

I’m boggled. And scared. What’s going to happen to my crumpled up old dollar bills? Who’s going to want them when you can get crisp, germ-free ether bucks?

Dad gummit.

Man v. Woman v. Dog

2013-04-26T05:30:00.000-07:00

I’m going to share a breakthrough. I’m a little apprehensive since, like so many groundbreaking thoughts, this will be controversial.

You know how it goes: People read a headline and “go off” before they understand the context.

But because it’s important, I will press on. Just bear with me and you’ll see the genius of it:

Now, cringing as I write, I offer the headline: Women's Brains Smaller than Men's, but Used More Efficiently.

All right you guys! Did you even read the whole sentence? No fair to stop at the comma!

And Women, it’s OK. Breathe...! And breathe...!

Men, if you’re still there, quit high-fiving and read on.

This research out of the University of California says that while women average 8% less brain mass, they maintain equal intelligence to big-brained men.

We’ve been trying to tell you forever that size doesn’t matter!

And guys, I just tossed you that bone to soften the blow this mind-blowing revelation will deliver: Women’s little brains are more like dogs’ brains than men’s big brains are.

I know. Men take pride in their dog brains. They cling to and cultivate their canine heritage.

Conventional wisdom has assured us for decades that men’s brains and dogs’ brains reflect parallel composition. This conclusion is well supported by evidence and readily observed in the equivalent preoccupations of man and his buddy.

As an example, both dogs and men have significant chunks of gray matter dedicated to mindless, repetitive activities – for dogs, it’s chasing thrown objects; for men, it’s air guitar.

Both dogs and men have entire lobes of their brains devoted to ball sports, reflected by the endless repetition demanded by every canine that ever dropped a slobbery orb at his master’s feet, and the interminable playing or watching of ball sports on TV by adult males.

But I got to thinking about it this week after I read more redundant research in the category of “gender challenges” titled, New Research Proves MenReally Don't Understand Women.

The study comes out of Germany and concludes that men fail to recognize fairly obvious nonverbal signals, such as expressions of fear or disgust, when conveyed by the eyes of women. Duh. And, it goes on; when they’re communicating with other men they do just fine! Double duh.

In fact, brain scan data showed that when looking at the eyes of other men, but not women, male participants showed “heightened activation of the right amygdala,” which is that small, almond-shaped part of their big ole brain that plays a key role in the processing of emotions.

“The finding that men are superior in recognizing [the] emotions [and] mental states of other men, as compared to women, might be surprising,” said the research team leader, psychiatrist Boris Schiffer.

Well, maybe it was surprising to Boris, but the rest of us are rolling our eyes. We just keep on proving what we already know.

So here’s where the trailblazing begins:

After painstaking and diligent review of that internet article, an array of single pane, hand-drawn cartoons about brains and numerous stand-up comedy routines, I contend that we have fallen victim to confirmation bias, only seeing what supports our foregone conclusions.

We have rushed to judgment. We have only protected the punch lines of all our sexist jokes! The truth is - Men can NOT claim dog brains!

As proof, consider the classic Berman cartoon “Comparative Anatomy: BRAINS – Dogs v. Men” which offers a graphic depiction of specks in a man’s brain labeled “Commitment Molecule,” and “Listening Particle.” These two, when paired the almond-shaped sliver dedicated to detection of the emotions of women should put to rest the long-held notion that men have brains comparable to dogs’ brains.

That’s right. We know the unwavering, loving gaze of our dogs. They listen to us for the sheer joy of hearing our voices! In contrast to man’s “Interruption Lobe,” the dog brain encompasses an expanse entitled “Selfless Devotion to Loved Ones” and a gland reserved solely for “Commitment to Family.”

Now honestly, what man hangs on your every word or gives you the first cookie out of the oven? No! But a woman does. Woman and her little dog-brain!

Well. That didn’t come out right.

And I thought I had a victory.

Aldous Huxley got it right

2013-04-19T05:30:00.000-07:00

Item: Man uses mind to control rat’s tail.

OK. Set aside your common sense reaction: A man decides to use his mind and he uses it for that? To control a rat’s tail?!

What about the rat’s breeding habits, or his choice of residence, for example. Why not use your mind to control one of those more pressing rat proclivities?

Or how about a man controlling his own impulse to browse the channels for hours on end while the cable guide obscures the picture from other viewers in the room? What about that?

Or what if such a man used his mind to remember someone’s birthday, as a suggestion, or her ring size?

But I digress.

The point of the news out of BBC Future is that a man in the United States has successfully used his mind to control a rat’s tail in Brazil. It’s scientifically documented.

Yeah, me too. I’m still hung up on the why of it all, but let’s press on.

It’s a breakthrough, you understand. The man wired up in a lab here thought “twitch” into an internet connection with the rat’s brain in South America, and voila! That rodent wagged his hairless appendage as though he thought to do it himself.

Still feeling a little underwhelmed.

And they don’t mention any concern regarding reverse signals, from rat brain to man brain. Nevertheless.

Very serious grown men with clipboards and grant money, neuroscientists at Duke University, Harvard and the Pentagon, are focused on such brain-computer interfaces. They are hell-bent it seems, to take steps beyond the already established ability of human brains to commandeer computer cursors, artificial limbs and virtual drones.

We can extrapolate with confidence that they want that rat to dance to whatever tune is stuck in their heads. It’s a small world after all. (Sorry.) Achieving that pinnacle they most certainly will move on to bigger and more bizarre brain-to-brain interactions.

Hold that thought.

Item: Researchers at the 2012 conference for the International Association for the Study of Dreams report lucid dreamers sending signals to each other over the internet while in the dream state.

These guys strap on their brainwave headbands and when the EEG recognizes they’re in the dream state via rapid eye movement, it alerts them. The first one to get that signal becomes lucid - self-aware in the dream state - and signals his pal who’s sleeping in another room, or another state.

These Avant guard techies even created a rudimentary competition in which the dreamer who signals his counterpart first, wins. Now they’re exploring dreaming-brain-to-dreaming-brain connections via social media. What a time saver! Find your perfect mate while you sleep.

The dream guys jumped ahead of the Pentagon guys and their pet Brazilian rat. They established a conscious - at least lucid - contact between two human brains in remote locations. The difference is that the dreamers aren’t trying to control each other, they just want to play.

And finally:

Item: Google has opened a new service to let people control their email, blog posts and online photos posthumously, as concern grows over what happens to a user’s "digital life" when he dies.

This service allows living Googlers to set up binding instructions for what happens to their electronic legacies when they pass into that great Ethernet in “the cloud.” It heralds a common clause in wills of the future.

And it’s worrisome for those of us who’ve had this experience: One of my LinkedIn connections died a couple of years ago but he continues to ask for my endorsements. “Does ‘John’ know about project management?” the screen prompts hopefully. “Does ‘John’ know about Microsoft Word?”

It’s creepy. And by the way, “John” was creepy when he was alive. I didn’t like him in the first place. We started out as Facebook “friends” because we worked together and I didn’t want to draw his attention by declining his request. Twisted, I know. Then, he never even “liked” my posts or LOL’d one time! I guess he wants sympathy endorsements now!

In summary: Mad scientists work feverishly toward methods of controlling us from afar. Fun-loving researchers develop dazzling means to connect and entertain us. And search engines allow us to communicate from beyond the grave.

We have, indeed, a Brave New Electronic World.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aldous_Huxley

I left it in the living room

2013-04-12T17:51:00.001-07:00

The scene: Baby Boomer working diligently at her desk. She’s concentrating, writing, editing, rewriting, working toward deadline. She’s a master. A wizard.

Then, a pause. She pushes away from her keyboard, jumps to her feet and dashes - dashes mind you - downstairs into the living room to get … something.

Something very important.

Something warranting a dash for goodness sake.

What the heck did she go there for?!!!

Then, because the room looks familiar but the goal remains enigmatic, resignation sets in. Shoulders sag. She must turn and climb the stairs with a little wrinkle in her brow while reviewing the circumstances of her journey. She retraces her steps in faint hope of regenerating the same urgency she felt so … urgently just moments ago.

Let’s see…I was sitting right here. Writing my column. Then I jumped up and ran to the living room for…for…Dang it! Why did I get up and run out of the room?!

She tries to calm herself. It’s no big deal, she says. Everyone does that, right? We’re all jumping up from our desks, hurrying around the house pointedly seeking something, only to have to shrug, abandon the mission and settle down again.

Perhaps it’s not material, but an esoteric sort of metaphysical thing we seek. Inner meaning. Purpose of life. No need to prowl the world, thank God, when peace of mind is within your own home, your metaphorical self. Perhaps our built-in internal yearning for depth of experience compels us … OK. I’m not buying it either.

Pretty sure it was more mundane than that. I was probably looking for that new pencil with the fresh eraser I just bought at…where’d I get that thing? More important, where’d I put that thing? I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Look! A squirrel!

But so what? Everyone misplaces her car keys now and then. No need to worry until you misplace your car! Let me just check. Yep, it’s there, safe in the garage.

I’m OK, I tell ya!

But you can see why I glommed onto “brain games” with millions of other Boomers.

Thank God, I thought. These intellectual games will save my withered walnut of a brain from further shrinkage! If I race around these mental agility wheels frantically enough I won’t have to careen around the house like a pinball. Sign me up. I’ll do it!

I jumped in with both lobes. I couldn’t wait for the “positive and often remarkable results” including “better face-name recall, faster problem-solving skills and a quicker memory.”

Oh yeah, just 10-15 minutes a day of synapse gymnastics will “reorganize my brain by confronting it with new challenges,” thereby improving my ability “to dynamically allocate attention,” not to mention split infinitives.

I began to feel top heavy in a hurry.

But wait. What’s this from the NewYorker? “Brain Games are Bogus.”

Uh oh.

See that headline’s a problem for me. I’ve devoted some serious time to feeling all good and smug about my calisthenics for neuroplasticity. I have an emotional investment in brain games. These brain games may be the final fragile filament holding my pale gray matter intact! You can’t take away my brain games!

And what does the New Yorker know anyway?

Oh, right. They collected information from analysts at the University of Oslo and Georgia Tech who investigated claims made in the multi-million dollar brain game industry and came up with a pretty big goose egg.

Sure, they say, diligent hours of playing games supposedly designed to improve “working memory and fluid intelligence” does produce growth in one’s performance on those games.

But that’s it. The scientists who gathered all of the best research—twenty-three investigations of memory training by teams around the world—and employed a standard statistical technique (called meta-analysis) conclude: "The games may yield improvements in the narrow task being trained, but this does not transfer to broader skills like the ability to read or do arithmetic, or to other measures of intelligence.”

In short, “Playing the games makes you better at the games … but not at anything anyone might care about in real life."

Well that’s just great.

Excuse me for a moment. I have to get something from the living room.

Everyday life in the City of Drones

2013-04-05T16:43:00.000-07:00

In the category of What Could Possibly Go Wrong we find this item from Reuters: U.S. authorities grapple with regulating the use of unarmed drones in U.S. skies as they are already flying. Rapidly evolving drone technology is reshaping disaster response, crime scene reconstruction, crisis management and tactical operations.

So that should be good.

But coupled with this from staff at Business Insider: [I] “tried to fly a drone and failed miserably,” questions arise.

Admittedly, these were not the highly trained police, first responders and expert personnel one might expect to be at the controls of such hi-tech machinery. Nevertheless, a couple of young techies were goofing around, er, testing their skills in the offices of the magazine. They posted a 65-second video showing 11 full-on crashes of their PTAP F-0700 AR.Drone – purchased online for $45.95.

It’s the newest craze. And therein lies the problem: Soon everyone will be flying a drone. Or at least looking up at one!

The kids at Business Insider were toying with an apparatus that looks like an oversized water bug. You know, the insect that lives spread-eagled on the surface of a pond, scooting around with amazing agility. The F-0700 is an expanded, airborne, polypropylene version of that. Look for one soon in the skies above you.

Under these kids’ control, it wobbled chest high, thumped into walls, crashed into doorjambs and repeatedly capsized onto the floor. You’d think with their video game trained thumbs, they’d do better than that.

They said flying it was “ridiculously hard.”

I can so relate.

I wasn’t very good at it either. Flying drones.

Oh yeah. I was a drone pilot myself, back in the day. I worked undercover in JC Penny’s seasonal toy department as an SA. Okay, Sales Associate. I was working retail, all right? I was only 16 years old, after all!

Anyway, the must-have item in the toy department that year was the radio-controlled helicopter. I flew that little sucker up and down the aisles, all the way through housewares and straight into men’s underwear (the department!).

That’s where I got into trouble. Concentrating on my flight pattern, I’d left the toy department unattended. Some mom reported me! Merry Christmas.

But the point is that the drone led me around the store. I didn’t so much control it as follow it.

And this is why now, with the explosion of this really cheap, cool, and highly functional technology, the Federal Aviation Administration must determine who gets to fly these unmanned aircraft in America, and where they get to go.

Uh oh.

While the Feds assure us that for more than five decades they have a “proven track record of introducing new technology and aircraft safely into the National Airspace System (NAS)…”

And that they’re now working on the safe integration of unmanned aircraft systems (UAS) into that self-same NAS.

Accordingly, “Federal, state and local government entities must obtain an FAA Certificate of Waiver or Authorization (COA) before flying UAS in the NAS.”

Yep. You’ve gotta have an FAA COA to fly your UAS in the NAS; or, in spite of your best intentions just to have some fun, you could wind up in men’s underwear. Just sayin’.

And who believes that that alphabet goulash will have any bearing on the rest of us amateur aviators? You may have noticed there is an ongoing negotiation between what the law dictates and what people actually do. Just think speed limits.

Even though the use of drones for commercial purposes is outlawed, and hobbyists are forbidden from flying drones above 400 feet or in densely populated areas, rogue drone operators have posted already aerial videos of New York and San Francisco. And, a commercial airline pilot has reported that a drone flying at an altitude of 1,700 feet came within 200 feet of the airliner!

It’s unenforceable. A typical American free for all. A quick Google and anyone with $450 can buy a sophisticated drone with a wireless mini cam and a 5-foot wingspan, like the ones used by the Air Force for medium-altitude long-endurance reconnaissance and surveillance.

The same site offers costumes, props and magic tricks!

I’m thinking scavenger hunt! Who’s up for a drone party?!!

www.jcp.com

I don't have a problem!

2013-03-29T09:41:00.000-07:00

“I own 81 leather jackets, 75 pairs of boots, 41 pairs of leather pants, 32 pairs of haute couture jeans, 10 evening jackets, and 115 pairs of leather gloves.”

So says Buzz Bissinger. You know, the guy who wrote “Friday Night Lights.” He confesses to spending $587,412.97 between 2010 and 2012. On clothes! Evidence of his shopping addiction. No kidding. He wrote about it in an essay published in GQ magazine this week. He posed for a few pics as well.

Bissinger says he keeps scrupulous records of his spending and has every expense category under control. Except for the one, of course: Threads. Leather, to be more precise. Although I guess you can be “haute” without being leather.

I can almost relate.

Once, my friend who knows everything about clothing, shopping, dressing and accessorizing told me that I should color coordinate my closet to facilitate mixing and matching. Hang blues with blues, greens with greens, and so on.

So I did.

That’s when I discovered I had 13 cream-colored sweaters! V-necks, cable knits, turtlenecks, mock turtles, wrap-a-rounds. Man, are they versatile!

But honestly, that’s probably more about weak wardrobe awareness than shopping addiction. Right?

On the other hand, I do love me my sweaters. And that ecru! Oatmeal! Crème brulee! Goes with everything.

Besides, I can stop whenever I want to.

Anyway, by comparison, it’s mild, my affliction. I was a classroom teacher in Oklahoma at the time I acquired those monochromatic multipurpose sweaters. And I couldn’t get in that much trouble. My 30-year, career financial plan did not enter the universe of $587K.  Those 13 sweaters probably represented a $300 expenditure over five years!

Still, I have to admit such things can be problematic for a Costco shopper with a bad memory. When in doubt I’ll just go ahead and pick up the item in question. With big box packaging, it’s not long at all before one finds herself knee-deep in Q-tips and dental floss. I keep the extra 3-packs of ketchup and mayo in the garage with the crates of OrvilleRedenbacher popcorn and Quaker oats. Overflow paper products? In the toolshed with the lawnmower and the surplus chardonnay.

That’s different, anyway. I’m not compulsive. Like any Dust Bowl Okie, I don’t like to live too close to the bone.

Nevertheless, I read an article on NBCNews.com: “10 ways to escape a shopping addiction,” and found I’d already put one strategy into operation: #8. Find healthy alternatives.

Not sure if the lip balm qualifies as a healthy alternative, though. It is better than chapped lips, but I just counted 19 tubes of it in my make-up drawer. I know, little waxy tubes of … wax don’t constitute actual make-up, but where else would I keep them? Except in my jacket pockets, my desk drawer, the phone table, my purse, the toolbox, the cup holder of my car and of course, the clothes dryer.

I just love the stuff. Ever since Carmex added that little taste of what? Menthol? Eucalyptus? Keeps a girl coming back.

And what’s the harm? Though the days of 79-cent Chap Stick are behind us. It’s all flavored, tinted and scented specialty wax now; with added SPF it’s about $2.79 a pop.

My current favorite – Burt’s Bees Rejuvenating. So smooth. So worth it.

And let’s see…19 @ $2.79 = $53.10, just about the price of a lovely, cream-colored cardigan.

Do I seem defensive?

When you feel overwhelmed by the urge to stockpile, says NBCNews.com, go for a walk or do some other form of exercise. This can take your mind off the urge until it passes.

You’ll need a sturdy pair of walking shoes. A pedometer is nice. A visor, polarized sunglasses, a lightweight jacket. And of course, your lip balm.

So that idea backfired.

Maybe I’ll try #9. “Expand your possibilities,” it says. Instead of using all that time to shop, I could volunteer in my community, spend more time with my family, go back to school, read lots of great books.

That’s a lot of pressure. Stressful. Maybe I’ll start with a magazine.

Hey, here’s a copy of GQ. Oh man! Look at this guy Bissinger! He blew half a million bucks on leather pants! Now he has a problem.

Take the 'A' train to Elite-town

2013-03-22T05:30:00.000-07:00

Hey! I’m elite! Who says I’m not elite?!

I’m elite, I tell ya! By definition. And I don’t mean MerriamWebster’s middle-of-the-road, everybody-gets-it definition. I’m talking about the big time, high falootin’, scientific, cultural definition. You know - the one from American Enterprise Institution’s Fellow, Charles Murray. That’s right.

According to Mr. Murray, even someone like me can live in can “elitist bubble” if she cannot identify the NASCAR driver pictured in his quiz about the culture gap in the United States. Those NASCAR guys all look the same to me (Sorry, Danica!); so that’s a step on the elitist staircase.

Ever see “Transformers: Dark of the Moon.” Me neither! Step two! I’m ascending toward elite-osity!

Step 3: I don’t hang out with people who smoke (unless they’re my friends and the patch just doesn’t work for them). It turns out being a non-smoker is elite!

Step 4: All my friends made good grades, or at least they could have if they hadn’t gone anti-establishment and failed deliberately to get back at “the man.”

This is so exciting! After all those anxious years of yearning to be in, only to be sadly, awkwardly, gawkily out. Painful memories linger! So I was jazzed to stumble across Mr. Murray and his quiz.

His measure of one’s residence in the “elite bubble” encompasses 25 questions to help determine a quizzee’s status by examining her activities. He does this rather than calculating her earnings as do more traditional gauges of social status or preeminent elite-ness.

For example Murray wants to know if you ever worked in a job where a part of your body hurt at the end of the day. Duh! I was a high school principal! My brain hurt constantly! That’s a pretty important body part. AND my feet hurt too!

But oops. Pain in the anatomy gets chalked up on the non-elite side of the ledger.

Evidently, the upper crust doesn’t relate to physical pain from work…hmmm.

But I never worked on a factory floor, so I have that goin’ for me on the elite bubble point scale.

What’s this? Uh oh. I’ve been fishing in the last five years. Darn it! I used bait, too! A worm on a hook! Yikes. You can take the Okie out of the state, but she’ll never shake that hankerin’ for catfish. Catch ‘em and skin ‘em; fry ‘em up with hushpuppies; add a red beer! Now we’re talkin’!

No fancy schmancy flies. Catch and release?! What’s the point?

Oh…Methinks I doth digress too much. I’ve wandered afield from the posh confines to which I aspire to become accustomed.

Returning to Mr. Murray’s questionnaire, he wants to know if you have a close friend who’s an evangelical Christian, or a close friend with whom you have strong and wide-ranging political disagreements.

Do I have to count family?

‘Cause there’s my crazy “Uncle Earl” (name changed to protect the guilty). When he learned how I voted in the 2012 election he called me a “sympathizer.” And the last time I went to church with his family, the sermon was entitled “Satan Wants You Dead.”

Decidedly non-elite.

I don’t like this stupid survey anymore.

I scored 12. Middle of the pack. Foot in both worlds kind of a deal. Neither mainstream American nor elite American.

Oh well. Doesn’t matter. I can hang out with the whoopti dos. I can fit in. I can blend. I even get a little cocky with my adroit schmoozing.

But inevitably I expose my non-elite side by lifting my Diet Coke when everyone else is ready to tilt stems on their Pinot.

When I’m at the other end of the spectrum, family picnics can get a little icy. My cousins don’t like it when I correct their grammar. I guess elite people know how to keep their mouths shut. You don’t see them rolling their eyes when someone shows up with a baby stroller and a six-pack of Bud Lite.

So to heck with the elite bubble! I’m happy here in my Lake Woebegone bubble, where all the women are strong; all the men are good looking; and all the children are above average. No one to look down on and no snob left behind.

That’s my kind of elite.

Bless the beasts

2013-03-15T05:30:00.000-07:00

We have an abomination duck in our neighborhood. Or goose. Maybe he’s a goose.

He’s tall and bulky like a goose. White body. Orange feet. And a big green mallard head.

When you first lay eyes on him, it’s a bit like watching “The Exorcist” for the first time: that famous scene when Linda Blair’s head rotates ever so slowly. All. The way. Around.

Your brain does a double take and your reflex is to squint and turn away. Nothing’s supposed to look like that. It’s wrong on so many levels.

But you must look again. What IS that? Ewww! An abomination duck!

Something funny’s going on in the barnyard. A recombining of critters. A reordering of genes.

The other “regular” geese make no distinction, bless their ecumenical selves. But no true mallards linger in the vicinity. Perhaps someone’s feeling sheepish about the consequences of his behavior. Not to mix metaphors.

Ugh. More creepiness.

I had the same reaction when I watched a Big Think Big Idea video on that crazy contraption, the internet. Some scientist talking about “de-extinction.”

Stewart Brand, of the Revive and Restore Project, is working with ecologists and biologists all over the world to “de-extinct” the passenger pigeon, among other long departed species. “The world misses them,” he says.

So these brainiacs collected the DNA of the extinct passenger pigeon (that’s right, there’s a bunch of deceased passenger pigeon bodies complete with DNA in a hermetically sealed jar on Funk & Wagnall’s porch), and they’re combining it with the DNA of the passenger pigeon’s closest living relative, the band-tailed pigeon.

And voila! A “nearly perfect” hybrid version of that passenger pigeon we’ve been pining for since 1912. The one that flew across the eastern seaboard in flocks a mile wide and 400 miles long, blackening the sky.

I don’t know. I wasn’t there to see that spectacle, so it’s probably unfair to refer to anything like, say, locusts, or guano. As usual, I’m superficially informed, so maybe our ecosystem suffers from the passing of billions of squab. You’d think so. It hasn’t made headlines, that’s all.

And somehow, “nearly perfect” evokes that skin-crawly sensation of a Stepford-ish creation fluttering around the lab, “better” than the original, but flawed in an invisible way that we only discover, to our horror, when thousands of them assemble on the swing set outside the schoolhouse in Bodega Bay.

Seriously, should we be doing this? I mean after all, you’ve seen “Jurassic Park,” right? “The Island of Dr. Moreau”? And what about the abomination duck?

Clearly, these guys are not moviegoers. Like Gene Wilder and Marty Feldman, they’re blithely tripping along reviving an array of long-dead creatures, piece-mealing them together using the brain of Abbey Normal.

They’re reconstituting the beast of the southern wild! Yes, really. The aurochs of little Hushpuppy’s nightmares! Coming soon to a bad dream near you.

Oh, I’ll admit my bleeding little heart is torn over this whole concept. I certainly don’t want ANY more species going extinct. It’s wrong. We must stop trampling across the planet like so many arrogant and thoughtless clods, oblivious to the harm we inflict.

And of course there’s the guilt. The heart-crushing devastating shame and self-reproach we carry when faced with our record of snuffing out beautiful, irreplaceable animals. But that’s what makes each one precious, isn’t it? Once they’re gone…

Are we absolving ourselves of the theft when we restore a nearly perfect version of what we stole? They’re saying that the beast, the aurochs, will be returned to its ecological role of turning barren landscapes to productive meadows. So that’s good.

But something internal recoils in the face of reanimation. Mary Shelley and all. We’re not supposed to be messing with THAT, are we?

Even the audience watching Stewart Brand shifted uneasily in their seats, applauding tentatively, doing their best to support their guy. But he’s starting to look like Christopher Lloyd and sound like Dr. Strangelove as he paces on stage in front of a giant screen, clicking through slides of mystic creatures and fantastic scenarios.

Yeah, we have to atone for our sins. But not so literally, please. Remember “The Monkey’s Paw”? We don’t get “overs.”

Leave the details to me

2013-03-08T05:30:00.000-08:00

I could be your virtual assistant.

Come on…! You know you want one. And I’m ideal. I’m cheap, for one thing. And of course, I’m virtual.

As a citizen of the 21^st century, I do almost everything on my own personal to do list in a virtual manner. That is to say, I execute virtually everything in cyberspace; meaning I accomplish virtually nothing in actual time and space.

And for a nominal fee, I can do the same for you.

According to the Wall Street Journal, Personal Assistants manage all the bothersome bailiwicks that eat up the good humor of the harried.

Virtual Assistants simply do it online! They never meet their clients, communicating instead by email, instant message, or videoconference. Virtual Assistants maintain an air of mystery, perhaps living continents away from their customers. That’s perfect for me! I can be enigmatic.

Virtual Assistants might be students working their way through college, parents who want to work from home or older people (ahem!) who are semi-retired.

So far, I meet all the stipulations: I’m virtual, mature (!), and mysterious.

Virtual Assistants work selflessly to unsnarl busy people's lives, taking on everything from scheduling their doctor's appointments and coordinating their calendars to finding them the perfect pair of pants. Yeah, that’s me, me, me!

I’m your invisible Man Friday. Jeeves in the Ether. I’m Miss Money-penny in the cloud.

Let’s just run a test case: Consider your hair appointments, for example.

As an industrious person preoccupied with say, feeding the hungry, you cannot devote precious time to personal grooming. But to your dismay, a glimpse in the mirror reveals white roots. You rationalize that white is almost blonde and no one is likely to notice. You consider going white. Then your stomach growls. Let it grow!

Still you must soon acknowledge the sharp demarcation between one inch of white roots and your remaining yellow hair. You consider the expense of professional coloring. Pet your wallet. Soothe it.

You go to the beauty supply store and purchase the chemicals necessary to color your own hair. Don’t forget the rubber gloves and gas mask. Goop up. Rinse.

Finally, save money, if not face, with a no-appointment-necessary visit to Supercuts. And voila! All you need is a cheap pair of shoes to complete your nutty professor ambience.

Please! Let me help you with that. It’s no biggy. A day in the life. I can arrange all those things for you. It’s effortless for me, therefore making me a natural for helping others.

Of course, if you’re a no-nonsense, bottom line kind of person, just want to get the darned haircut, I can set that up for you too.

Let’s say you’ve been putting off getting that membership at the gym. I can do it for you.

Ha ha ha! I don’t mean I can procrastinate for you! I’m pretty busy doing that for myself. So many things not to do!

No, I mean I can sign up at the gym for you. Sure! I’ll take care of all the pesky details. Get your yoga mat and your stretchy pants. Rent a locker and never use it. Heck, for an added premium, I’ll even perspire some virtual sweat for you. Say the word.

I have a client now who says he doesn’t have time to socialize with his friends. (OK. I don’t really have a client. Just run with me on this.)

He doesn’t have time to call people, send cards, go out to lunch, you know, act like a caring human being. So I do all that for him.

He hands over his contact list and I hang out with his friends in virtual reality. I ‘like’ their stuff on Facebook. I ‘lol’ all over the place. They think he’s the greatest, most attentive, thoughtful friend they hardly know. Conversely, he is freed of the burden of interaction and involvement. And I make a little dough.

Win, win, WIN!

Oh yeah, I’m all over this Virtual Assistant thing.

I can charge by the hour or by the job. Fleet rates. Flat rates. We can work out a payment plan so long as your genuine check is in the authentic mail.

Otherwise I’ll have to crack your cybernetic kneecaps.

I do work from home, really!

2013-03-01T05:30:00.000-08:00

I’m pumping iron right now.

That’s right. Here at my desk. Between words.

Fifteen reps. Five-pound dumbbells. Bicep curls, Baby. Overhead punches. Whooh! Man! That’s a workout.

How do I do it, you might ask. It’s just the kind of person I am. A multi-tasker. Master of time management and personal fitness. Oh yeah.

If you want to change your own slovenly ways and turn your torpid life around, you can find some great suggestions for this kind of efficiency online.

To wit: Keep exercise tubing in your desk drawer and use it while talking on the phone. I’m unsure why I didn’t think of that myself.

An element of caution is appropriate here. I’ve learned that exercise tubes can be awkward in your desk. They’re rubbery, and a little like those coiled-up cloth-covered snakes that spring out of a tube, freaking out the unsuspecting dupe who unscrews the lid, never anticipating that old gag.

Just this morning I spilled coffee and carrot sticks all over the place when I opened the desk drawer and my exercise tubes surged at me like a nest of eels. It was extremely unpleasant.

My cat had her nose at the edge of the drawer just at that moment too since I keep her treats in there. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere.

I’ll bet you didn’t know you can tighten your flappy triceps right there at your computer. Chair dips’ll do it! Sure!

Face outward, placing your palms on the seat of the chair behind you. That’s right, behind you. Now, feet flat on the floor. Bend your knees. Bend ‘em! Now slowly bend your arms and lower yourself until your upper arms are parallel to the floor. Feel the burn! And push yourself back up!

Or just ooze yourself on down to the floor for a minute. Then get up and try again. Repeat 15 times. Easy peasy!

I should warn you though, no matter how committed you are to eliminating those granny wings, don’t attempt these dips if your chair is on wheels.  Take my word.

You know you can strengthen your core by standing on one leg while you brush your teeth, right? I time myself according to the timer built into my fancy schmancy electric toothbrush, holding that flamingo pose for sixty seconds on each leg.

Beginners should build up their balance on this one though. One erratic wobble and you can wind up with your Sonicare sideways in your mouth and toothpaste in your ear.

Tighten those buns by doing squats while you blow your hair dry. That’s right, squats. Hold that squat for as long as you can, then stand up and give your glutes 30 isometric squeezes.

I beg your pardon. Was that too graphic? No time to be squeamish! But if you’re getting ready to go to work, you’ll want to complete this move before you put on your pantyhose.

I never just walk around the kitchen anymore. No! The dedicated multi-tasker never lets an opportunity pass to maximize the personal fitness moment. When I’m putting away groceries, cooking or cleaning up, I only allow myself to lunge around the kitchen. Didn’t you ever see Monty Python’s Minister of Silly Walks? Super toned legs!

If I have a few moments waiting for the coffee to brew – I have time to tone my hamstrings with jump squats. I jump up and land in a squat position from the guest bedroom to the entry hall and back.

Of course, to enhance your motivation and results, you must visualize the benefits of your workout! I can just picture my…well, just picture your own body parts getting firmer and more toned as you go.

Finally, you’ve earned a cool down. Stretch out in your chair by opening your knees and folding your body over your thighs. Let your head hang low towards your feet. You’ll recognize this as the emergency (crash) landing pose advocated by the airlines; the one where you kiss your bum goodbye.

One caveat is in order: If you happen to be working from home for Yahoo!, be advised that President & CEO Marissa Mayer will not approve this regimen as legitimate use of company time.

Last wishes playlist

2013-02-22T05:30:00.000-08:00

I remember when my grandma announced that she had finalized the plans for her funeral.

I was about seven years old and wearing her pheasant-feathered pillbox hat with a beaded necklace and matching brooch pinned to my t-shirt. I had selected her “rose luster” lipstick and drawn it on mostly within the confines of my lips.

Completing my ensemble was her stole, made not just from the hides of a couple of hapless minks, but from their pelts intact, replete with tiny mink feet, claws, and a head with beady black eyes and a mouth that was converted to a clamp so it could bite its own tail and hold itself in place.

As you can see my grandma had flair. All her Sunday dresses boasted matching shoes and handbags. She kept her waist-length red hair braided just so and curled around her head forming a crown befitting her status in the family.

She appreciated the finer things. She would have been among the first to avail herself of the newest advances in the field of funeral science. And the last to be lowered into the ground without her face on.

Grandma never settled for the mundane; she served every meal on her best dishes. Franciscan. Dogwood pattern.

I’m pretty sure she ironed her sheets, so it follows that her dainties must have been wrinkle-free too, though I never saw them. I can assure you they were not exposed to public viewing on the clothesline with my grandpa’s formidable sox and boxers.

If I caught her in the right mood, as I had on this day, she’d let me noodle through her closet at will. On this particular morning, she’d been preoccupied with papers and brochures at her desk, licking the tip of her pencil, erasing and rearranging items on a list.

I was just slipping into a pair of open-toed black suede platform pumps when she made her proclamation.

Even at seven, I knew it was weird. But she wasn’t going to leave such important details to discussion or debate. And no one else was there to hear it. She’d picked her dress, shoes, jewelry, even her nail polish.

Did I mention that my grandma wasn’t ill? Not disabled. No, she was bright and perfectly healthy, if a little odd-turned.

She had an excruciatingly screechy voice. But she loved the Lord and every Sunday she showed it by singing louder than anyone else in the congregation. So it was no surprise to me that she also picked the hymns to be played when she would inevitably be laid out for viewing.

(“Gladly the Cross I’d Bear” was first on her program. To her dismay, I said I’d never heard of a cross-eyed bear. With a harrumph she scratched it leaving only “Amazing Grace.”)

You can see why, when I read about the latest Swedish casket technology, the first person who popped into my mind was my Grandma, even if it came along too late for her to benefit: Stockholm music and video equipment store owner Fredrik Hjelmquist has designed a coffin withbuilt-in speakers linked to a music playlist that can be updated by the living. That’s right. Wi-Fi for the dead.

Grandma would have loved it. So I’m including it in my funeral plans. It’s not that I’m ready to tuck it in, you understand. I’m forward thinking, that’s all. Like Grandma, I don’t want anyone else planning my parties.

And, like her, I have some detailed last wishes. For one thing, don’t let just anyone do my hair. I’ve been with Mr. Paul for so many years now; no one else can cover the gray like he does. Light mascara. Clear polish and Chapstick only.

I wish I could still browse through Grandma’s closet. My wardrobe just doesn’t have her panache. Best to stick with the classics, navy blue skirt and sweater. Crisp white blouse. Perpetuity and all.

It’s the playlist that’s worrisome. Must have Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto. Perlman! I can listen to that for years. But eternity? No, I'll want some variety, please! I love my Lynyrd Skynyrd. Throw in some Stevie RayVaughn for goodness sake. Bonnie Raitt. Black Keys. Oh yeah. That’ll work

And yes, Grandma, of course - Amazing Grace.

Repent! Or pass the Cracker Jacks!

2013-02-15T05:30:00.000-08:00

Whenever I need to cheer down, I have a look at the End Time Headlines for “News from a Prophetic Perspective.” A family member turned me onto this website. She wants me to be mindful of all the disasters that are about to befall me. And the world at large. And the United States in particular. So thoughtful.

I probably sleep too well anyway.

Let’s have a look… OMG! Huge spiders are raining down from the sky! In Brazil, it’s raining really big spiders.

Well. Not exactly raining. They’re sort of falling.

Actually, to be completely accurate, when you check it out online, you can see a video of admittedly large spiders constructing giant “sheet webs” to capture insects in an unfortunate town in South America. They float from tree to post on gusts of wind. It’s what they do, those crazy sheet-web-building arachnids.

It is pretty freaky.

But it’s not a sign of the end of the world, unless you want it to be. In that case you can denounce any and all scientific explanation and refer to www.endtimeheadlines.wordpress.com for confirmation of your greatest fears.

Here’s an excellent example of something the End Times wants us to worry about: Obama Has Put in Place a Secret Database with ‘Everything on Everyone.’

Oh man. That could be bad. He’s bound to be making a list, checking it a couple of times.

And I’ve fallen off on my flossing. That doesn’t make a good impression.

I wonder what he’ll think of my TV viewing habits? After the morning news it’s either murder and mayhem or Comedy Central. What does that tell you? Wait. Don’t answer that.

But I love a Twilight Zone marathon. That should count for something.

Here’s one story worthy of consternation that would have slipped right past me if it were not for our vigilant friends at End Times: Twitter Explodes with Fears of Armed Drone Strikes Targeting [fugitive] Chris Dorner. Yeah.

The Prophetic Perspective includes “Signs in the Heavens 2013-2015.” In this section, we discover “how signs from the heavens are once again happening [and] preparing us for coming Wars, Prophetic Events and the Soon Return of the Lord Jesus Christ.”

It’s good that they’re tracking this stuff, right? Otherwise, the thread would be lost. With no one monitoring and reporting the dark doomy news, we’d all probably trail off into photos of natural beauty and unfettered optimism.

I think I’ll let the End Times folks carry the lead, though. I’ll peruse other sites for newsworthy items - things to distract us in the meantime.

Here’s one: Puck Daddy reports that the Bakersfield Condors, a minor league hockey team, suffered an unfortunate incident this week when their mascot turned on them. The California condor named Queen Victoria escaped from her handler and wobbled and flapped her way across the ice to the penalty box where she began pecking the players. Only mortification and minor injuries were sustained before her highness was corralled and escorted to the locker room. (The Condors went down in defeat to the Las Vegas Wranglers, 4-1.)

Oh, and the Pope resigned. God love him. In a perverse way, I’m looking forward to what the Prophetic Perspective on this will be. Maybe the President’s new database had something juicy on the pontiff and he stepped down to avoid exposure.

After an engine fire, the Carnival cruise ship “Triumph” is drifting in the Gulf of Mexico, powerless; its 4200 passengers experiencing ennui. Certainly this sort of thing isn’t out of the ordinary. Next comes a reality series episode on each cruise itinerary.

Darn it, the End Times has gotten in my head a little bit. Torrents of spiders, endangered birds behaving badly, the Pope punts, cruise ships running amok. Who can’t add these seemingly random and unrelated events together without concluding we could have some prophetic events on our hands?!

Throw in the President’s database and armed drones targeting fugitives on American soil, well, I’m sure you recognize the omens. It could be bad. Signs in the Heavens.

I just want to be prepared, that’s all. Maybe I’ll dig a hole. Crawl in. At the least I’ll worry!

Or… I could stay out here and watch baseball.

Peter Pan lied!

2013-02-08T05:30:00.000-08:00

Let me just say what a swift kick in the britches it is be as old as I am and still such a complete and utter work in progress.

I may even be getting worse.

What are the hallmarks of maturity, anyway? How can you tell you’re grown up?

That’s right. I have to ask. I don’t just know, like, automatically. (Maybe I’ve spent too much time with teenagers.)

So, in my saga of self-improvement I’m developing a checklist. Here we go:

Age. Sure, if you’re the literal type. And I can be. So of course, age is one facet of maturity. The concept applies to cheese and to people. So, check! Like a succulent Gouda, I have aged.

My mom used to say that a grownup can carry money without spending it. Oh hooray. I’m a big girl now.

Ripeness. OK…this could be delicate. Ripeness implies reaching the fullness of one’s potential.

Part of me wants to believe I’m still rising in this regard. Still on the upswing. In this roller coaster ride of life, I’m still grinning in wild anticipation of what’s to come. Gravity pulls me back in my seat as I look at the sky and the car ticks its way up the steep, steep grade toward the peak of ripeness - that moment of weightless glee at the top.

But another part, or perhaps I should say parts, of me must acknowledge that I may have crested the summit a while back when I wasn’t paying attention. Maybe I missed my peak experience. Or, maybe, in the continuum of peaks, mine was a middling one, unremarkable in contrast with the surrounding Himalayas.

Ripeness for me could very well be in the rearview mirror. Come to think of it, 35 was a excellent year.

Yep, I may be overripe. In the vernacular of food preservatives, I could be going bad.

Uh oh. That actually explains some things.

For example: Some evidence indicates that I’m edging my way down the slope of wisdom, having spent too little time at the pinnacle soaking things in, as it were. I’m less wise, which is as we know, a gentle way of saying I’m dumber than I used to be.

This may be an unintended consequence of holding a know-it-all job for so many years. Whether I ever actually knew anything is subject to debate, but in the role of principal, pretty much everyone treated me as if I possessed oracle-like abilities, especially when they wanted to pass off their freshly created debacle. Or, folks shuddered in disbelief when I didn’t know the particular thing they thought I should know; the classic case of a lose-loser situation.

As you can no doubt see, holding such a job for any length of time has the effect of creating a crackpot. The only difference is now that I’m retired, no one listens to me! Back in the day when I spouted off, it meant something. Today, pfffft!

Yet I’m still cracking wise…Is that maturity, or immaturity? I prefer to think of it as freedom, but again, no one cares what I think. It’s an extremely frustrating conundrum.

I’m less adept on so many levels these days. Once noted for my poise and serenity in dicey situations (run with me on this), I’ve become fretful and inept. If I could just stop blurting. It’s not cute anymore. Apparently.

Even as a child I somehow knew the right thing to say and when to say it. My elders nicknamed me the “Diplomat.” But those days of respect and elevated status are long gone. Now at reunions, when my cousins see me coming, they sort of squint and turn their faces to the side, like you do when you hear a first grader playing the violin.

Remember Mork from Ork? He arrived on earth as an adult. And as time passed, he got younger and younger. The subtext of the script was that children are smarter than adults are. We should all strive to be more childlike. Robin Williams has made a good living doing just that.

But outside of Hollywood, maturity is a high price to pay for growing up.

Take a pill!

2013-02-01T05:30:00.000-08:00

I saw a post on Facebook this week: “I've been pleased to find that I can pretty much hide the ‘greens’ taste of kale in my morning juices. No more ‘squinchy’ face!”

It’s the little things, isn’t it? Doesn’t take much at all to make most of us happy, even if we do come across as a bit simple-minded.

But really, her day seems to have been made. She can gracefully navigate the vicissitudes of life having beaten the squinchy face.

More power! And by all means, keep us apprised!

Of course, some of us beat the “greens” thing a while back by leaving the kale entirely out of our morning juices. It’s another way of looking at it. A new perspective. I call it the “take a pill” approach.

You could take a kale pill with your morning juices. That’s an idea. I’m sure there’s a kale pill available at GNC. Look for it alphabetically on the shelf right next to the Krill Oil, between the Horny Goat Weed and the L-Tryptophan.

What? Not familiar with Horny Goat Weed? I’ll confess; I just found it myself when I was shopping online for this column. Suffice it to say that Horny Goat Weed can be found in the Men’s Health and Vitality section.

And there’s the L-Tryptophan, available in a tablet or capsule so you don’t have to eat a Thanksgiving turkey to get a good night’s sleep.

It begs the question as to why anyone would put kale in her morning juices to begin with. In fact, let me just come right out and say it: Enough with the kale!

According to World’s Healthiest Foods, you’re going to need to camouflage two cups a day, five days a week to achieve the maximum, though admittedly prodigious health benefits of this invasion-of-the-body-snatchers-looking plant. It doesn’t form its own head; that’s why it wants yours!

I say consume your cruciferous vegetables the way God intended, steamed until limp and smothered in cheese. That’s the most effective method for cloaking that “greens” taste and to avoid the “squinchy face” which could last all day.

Or, you could take a pill.

And while we’re here, what, pray tell, are “morning juices”? I have a sneaking feeling this a concoction akin to a martini – that combination of unpleasant liquids dressed up in a groovy glass so the consumer can pretend it’s fun to drink even though it produces a squinchy face all its own.

I’m thinking “morning juices” comprise a Molotov cocktail of murky stuff that’s “good for you” but so unpleasant as to need dim lighting, costumes and makeup before it’s approachable.

I speak from experience on this: In the ‘70’s a cousin of mine took up selling supplements in hopes of building a pyramid of personal wealth off his family. I had a job and so felt compelled to help him out and buy something. That something turned out to be a jug of aloe vera juice. He pitched it for its soothing, healing, restorative powers. Why it would flow through you and right all your internal wrongs.

And all it took was a capful! Keep it in the fridge. Shake it up first thing in the morning; pour it into its own plastic shot glass and slug it down. I envisioned myself glowing with a sort of fluorescent green well-being. (He was a pretty good salesman, my cousin. I wonder where he is now?)

Day one: Shake it up. Drink it down. Say, that was kind of thick.

Day two: Shake it up, swirl it around the cap, drink it! Hmmm. Not so much thick as slimy. Bleach-like.

Day three: Pinch your nose and think of the Queen. Eeeeyah! Oh! Oh! Oh!

Day four: Cue the soundtrack from “Jaws.” Open the fridge. Bright light in a dark kitchen. And as God is my witness, when I picked up the bottle the hair on my arms stood up.

Enough with the aloe vera!

In retrospect, he did say I could mix it with my orange juice. But it would take more than an innocent orange to wrestle the healing powers of aloe vera to the ground.

Don’t do it, I say! Step away from the kale! Take a pill.

Don't Worry! Gotcha covered!

2013-01-29T15:44:00.000-08:00

Here it is, a public service round up of current news items for your edification and financial benefit:

In the category labeled “Neener! Neener! Neener!” more commonly referred to as “I Told You So,” we find today’s headline from the Associated Press: “Pentagon project aims to strip satellites for their spare parts” or as the AP dubs it: ‘space grave robbery for a cause.’

That’s right. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA), that quirky, fun-loving exploratory wing of the Pentagon, is about to spend $180 million to test technologies that will soar into space and scavenge valuable parts from the orbiting junk yard above our heads.

(In their kinder, gentler Pentagon vernacular, those inoperable clunkers are denoted by a politically correct euphemism – “retired satellites.” Being retired myself, I now feel compelled to watch my back, as it were.)

Here’s the plan: First, they’ll identify a functional antenna or solar panel from the revolving rubbish overhead and send a robotic mechanic with a toolkit to salvage it. Then, they’ll launch a bunch of mini-satellites. THEN, the robot will string together the mini-satellites and hook them up with the old, but perfectly good satellite parts, thereby creating a new communication system right there! In space!

It’s recycling! It’s a time saver! It’s a money saver! What could possibly go wrong?

Here’s the part where I gloat and rub it in: If you had only listened to me you would already have known this. You could have invested a wad o’ cash in the project two years ago and be poised right now to rake in the dough. Oh yeah. I told you so ‘way back in September, 2011, in my column titled “Your mother doesn’t live in outer space.”

OK. Mostly I ranted about the folks at NASA who, like a bunch of sullen teenagers, have to go back into space to clean up after themselves. But no matter! DARPA awarded contracts to several companies to develop these new technologies. And, it is seeking fresh proposals from interested parties now. Eh? Eh?!!

So what do you say? We could get everyone together, buy a bunch of intergalactic lotto tickets, and chant: DARPA! DARPA!! until our numbers pay off.

All right. In other news, Beyonce` lip-synced the national anthem.

I’ll give you a moment. I know. There, there.

Evidently it was a conspiracy. She moved her lips and emoted without having to draw a breath (I thought it looked effortless!) AND the Marine Corps band members pretended to blow into their instruments while the director waved his arms in an impressive display of faux conducting.

Wow. They can assemble a transistor radio in outer space, but they can’t master the acoustics on the steps of the Capitol.

What else? Lindsay Lohan declined multiple offers topping out at $550,000 to appear on the next season of Dancing with the Stars. Me too. Like Lindsay, I like to be selective in my career and lifestyle choices. Wouldn’t want to lose my credibility.

OK. Let’s see. What’s this? “Good-cop” brain cells are turning bad and causing Alzheimer’s disease. Seems these microglia go rogue and prune away necessary synapses causing the cognitive decline so evident in Alzheimer’s patients. That sucks. Who can you trust anymore if not your own brain cells?

“Fear of estrogen is needless.” That’s a relief. “Ducks and geese can find their own chow.” Again, relieved.

Oh, here’s a good one: “Facebook sparks envy and misery, researchers say.” OMG!

According to two studies to be reported at a February conference on information systems, one in three Facebook users reports feeling worse about themselves after viewing vacation photos of their friends on the social networking site. With its 1 billion users, the researchers characterize Facebook as the largest social comparison site.

Miserable users also reported feeling envy when they didn’t get as many birthday wishes as others. That’s right. Facebook has created one billion 12-year-olds. Or, I guess technically, it’s only 300 million.

So what do these envious adolescents do to assuage their jealousy? They exaggerate their own achievements and post more self-promotional content to make themselves look and feel better. Of course! That’s what I do.

That about sums it up for the week. Rest easy. I’m on it! And, as always: you’re welcome!

The Oscars are coming! The Oscars are coming!

2013-01-18T05:30:00.000-08:00

Remain calm.

There’s still time to see all the Academy Award nominated films before February 24^th. So you can make informed decisions on your ballot. Of course! Priorities people!

Some of us are conscientious. Some of us make a concerted effort. Even if it requires a marathon. Or two.

For these reasons, it’s all the more irritating when the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences flings a knuckle ball at those of us who are doing our due diligence.

We’re paying attention. Tuned into the buzz. Faithfully. Dutifully.

Then, out of Ursa Minor comes “Beasts of the Southern Wild.”

I mean really, it’s just not fair. But that’s OK. I’ll work it in. Who am I to say that Quvenzhane` Wallis doesn’t deserve a nod? At 6 years old, or 11, or 5 and a half, she must have turned in a stunning performance. Her personal best. I’ll go. I’ll go!

I figure if I see thirteen movies between now and the end of February, I will have seen all the best picture nominees, all the nominated actors and actresses in lead and supporting roles; witnessed the best work of the most esteemed directors and talented screenwriters; laughed; cried; turned away in horror; spent $97.50 in admissions and another $123.50 on small bags of oily popcorn and small cups of watery Coke for a total of $221.00; sat in gloomy and cold theatres for 26 hours and loved every minute.

My favorite Christmas gift that I thought I’d never use? My new iPhone5 from Apple. My husband insisted.

(When the young men behind the counter checked my average usage before recommending a new billing plan, I thought they might laugh at me; but they just looked puzzled. “Eight minutes?” the first one said. The other leaned in, squinting at the screen. “Eight minutes,” he confirmed.

Then they turned in unison to look at me with expressions of true wonder – like I was a unicorn or the fading image of a do-do bird. I talked an average of eight minutes a month on my old flip phone. You can see why I was dubious about the upgrade, but…)

Best feature on the iPhone5? The Fandango app. It’s free and so cool and a must have for the dedicated Oscar aficionado.

You can sit in the Safeway parking lot and decide right then and there to go to the movies, unless you bought ice cream. Fandango will tell you that “Argo” is playing close by in 30 minutes and “Silver Linings Playbook” and “Life of Pi” in 3D are within reach after that.

You can watch trailers, buy your tickets, map your path of travel, and even submit your reviews afterward. OMG. I’m a complete convert.

So not to worry. Thirteen movies? It’s doable! It’s totally doable. We have 5 weeks! Are you kidding? That’s no step for a stepper! The hardest part is to chase down the films that have already been showing so long that they’re retreating into the nether regions of limited showings.

And of course, there’s “Amour.” Gotta find “Amour.” What? You’ve never heard of it? Me neither, but there it is. First in alpha order of the nominees for Best Picture. And get this: it’s also nominated for Best Foreign Language Film! Those crazy Austrians! They must have some serious dirt on members of the Academy!

I know. By now you’re shaking your head. “Oh Carolyn,” you might be saying. “Don’t you know we’ve got to raise the debt ceiling? What about guns, Carolyn? Guns! And how can you enjoy a movie when the bicycling world is reeling with Lance Armstrong’s shocking revelations?”

My point exactly. That stuff’s going on. And what are you going to do? You can go onto Facebook and express your opinions to those who already agree with you. Or, you can tangle with those whom you’ll never convince. You can stress out over the financial security of our beloved country, or get angry with the officials we’ve elected who only pose and play-act when we need them most.

Or, for a couple of hours, you can sit in the dark with greasy fingers and be carried away by a great story of human struggle, love, honor and redemption.

Priorities people.

Any nerd can do it

2013-01-16T17:49:00.000-08:00

In the more and more frequently visible category of “Geeks with Too Much Time on Their Hands,” we find the HAPIFork. That’s right. The HAPIFork is among the new products on display at this year’s Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas.

HAPIFork’s developers remind us that regulating the speed at which we eat may help with weight loss and blah blah blah blah blah!

They go on to say that it takes about 20 minutes for our stomachs to alert our brains that we’re full; and eating faster means we consume superfluous calories… before… the message is… delivered…

Oh! ‘Scuse me. I nodded off.

Responding to the communications standoff between gray matter and the gut, this latest marvel of good intentions gone horribly awry records how often and how quickly it moves from your plate to your mouth.

Looking like a smaller version of your typical fast-and-furious shoveling device attached to an electronic toothbrush, HAPIFork can track the number of mouthfuls per minute and per meal. It even times the intervals between each bite.

Then, and here’s the fun part, it lights up and vibrates to alert the conscientious diner when there are fewer than 10 seconds between forkfuls. Isn’t that nice?! And you can carry it in your pocket right into the French Laundry.

We are not told what the consequences might be if an epicure violates the prescribed meter for healthful consumption: For example, if you’re too zealous with the mac and cheese, does HAPIFork post a snide remark on your Facebook page, issue a citation or simply deliver an electric shock?

Skeptics argue that eating slowly with a regular fork can provide the same benefits as HAPIFork. But regular forks don't come with their own tracking software! And, at $99, the HAPIFork will reduce your budget for groceries, a proven technique for cutting calories.

In a related story, Japanese engineers at the Fukuoka Institute ofTechnology are finalizing a safety system for cars that will provide speeding drivers with specific feedback regarding what could happen if they don't slow down.

“Specific?” you say. “How so?”

"You would die if you crashed right now," is a message that could be delivered if you’re hurtling toward the back of the car in front of you in your righteous effort to keep that jerk in the SUV from squeezing into the space.

In a most delicate manner, the developers of this patent pending “safe driving promotion system" assure us that "a sense of danger will be awakened in drivers that makes them voluntarily refrain from dangerous driving."

How very kind.

Their system works by using the different types of sensors already found in a typical modern car or submarine - radar, ultrasound, sonar and laser - to work out the kinetic energy, compute the distance to the vehicle in front and keep watch on its brake lights.

Then, like a bookmaker in hell, an onboard app that has learned the driver's behavior and reaction time over all their past trips calculates the odds of a collision. If the driver is careening like a lunatic, it then displays the scale of damage that could result and generates warnings like, “Hey you! Behind the wheel! Back off before you sustain a ‘whiplash injury due to a rear-end shunt.’”

A what?! I’m all about clarity, but I don't want to know about a “rear-end shunt.” They’re right. I’d probably slow down.

Anyway, the engineering team believes current warning systems which only show the distance between the driver and the car ahead aren't enough since they don’t “awaken drivers to the real dangers of speeding.” Hence, their proposed warning of an impending “fatal, car-crushing collision with fire.” Got it.

Thank you. I’m definitely awake now. And grateful that the thing is display only - no screaming or gnashing of teeth.

Inspired by such technological innovations, I’m working on a hybrid of these two gadgets: A safe-eating meter that sounds an alarm and displays the disasters that will ensue if a bon vivant gets too happy at the table and burns rubber between her appetizer and dessert.

“Slow down!” it’ll shout. “You’re approaching a ‘no-more-zipping your skinny jeans zone!’”

Las Vegas, here I come!

Marital counseling, Hopalong Cassidy style

2013-01-04T05:30:00.000-08:00

Once, I told my husband I cut off my leg.

It was an experiment. Let me just see, I said to myself.

I told him it kept cramping, the leg, so I decided just to cut it off and hop from that point forward. If I needed to get around, I’d just hop.

He nodded.

Uh oh. Not a good sign.

I marked the day: We were in the car on our way to S & J Oyster Co. in South Tulsa. It was raining. I never expected it to arrive so soon, the day my husband tuned me out.

In truth, he’d most likely been on AM to my FM many times before. But now I had to know. I couldn’t just leave it there, think about it and come back later. Oh no. Not me. Communications major. Debate coach.

Donning my imaginary lab coat and goggles, a pretend clipboard at the ready, pen poised, I turned toward him in my seat and pressed on.

“Sure,” I said, “it would be an adjustment, the hopping. But I might learn to love it. It could be fun even. Hop, hop, hippity hop hop hop.”

I think it was right about then that he said, “Um hmm.”

I blinked, processing. I must have paused. He glanced in my direction from the driver’s seat, and said, “What Honey?” then turned back to the road.

“No, it’s OK,” I said, reeling at the revelation. “That’s it. Just the hopping, that’s all.” I leaned back in the passenger seat and turned my eyes toward the future.

You can imagine. Naïve astonishment. The five stages of grief. A young bride let go her innocence. Big exhale. There it is. Just like spider veins and crow’s feet. It sneaked up on me. The inevitability. The foregone conclusion.

He’s a regular man. And He. Doesn’t. Listen. To ME!

In the ensuing symposium, during which husband and wife reviewed the phenomenon from multiple angles, three conclusions were agreed upon:

1. I don’t talk too much. Really. I don’t.

2. He’s lucky. That’s right! He’s lucky because I consciously monitor my patter providing him with only the most scintillating vignettes. I am very careful in this regard.

3. He loves my stories.

Let me pause here and set the context.

We were a lot younger then. He told me I was fascinating and I fell for it. We ended up laughing that day and after that, if I caught him drifting, I’d punch him good-naturedly and say, “Have I been hopping again!?!”

Then he’d turn to me and fix a maniacal gaze. Rubbing his hands together he’d cross his eyes and say, “Go ahead, Honey. I’m mesmerized!”

Who could resist that? All was forgiven.

But even so, now and then it still bugs me. Hey! I’m talkin’ over here!

So here we are today, 22 years later, reliving the ump-teenth iteration of the post-hop summit during which I tell him it really bothers me when he doesn’t pay attention.

He said he hops sometimes too and I have to admit it. I’m not always riveted when he speaks.

But then, and here’s the kicker, he says the difference is that whenever he notices I’m not listening, he doesn’t really care.

OMG!

At first I thought I should be hurt. My husband, the love of my life, my-grow-old-together, croak-at-the-same-time guy doesn’t even care if I’m listening to him?

But no. It wasn’t that. He said sometimes he realizes he doesn’t even care that much about what he’s saying! So if I take a trip to the Bahamas in my mind, he’ll just hop ‘til I get back. No worries.

“But, but, but…Honey! What you say is always…” I couldn’t finish my own shallow half-truth.

He picked up the thread: “If it’s so important,” he said, “why are you on the beach in Margarita-Ville while I’m here on my pogo stick?”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“No. Not really,” he said.

Hmmm. How very interesting. I made a note of it in the category labeled: “Women Spend More Time Wondering about What Men Are Thinking than Men Spend Thinking.”

I’d never considered a no-ulcer approach. Note to self: Lighten up.

High-tech resolutions for the New Year

2012-12-28T05:30:00.000-08:00

I resolve to be self-reliant enough to conjure my own resolutions.

Yes, it’s come to this: For those bereft of all sense of self, the terminally lame and commitment averse, we now have New Year’s Resolution generators.

I hope you didn’t already know that.

I only stumbled across this abomination myself in my research as I reflected on the status of my being, took note of possible areas of growth and assessed my own personal cosmos before setting a path toward universal oneness in the New Year.

That’s right. I take the resolution business seriously. No casual promises. If I say I’m going to do something, I’m going to take an earnest run at it. Full tilt. Head on. Right up until the end at least. That’s when the new “no helmet to helmet contact” rule kicks in. Prevents self-improvement concussions. Thank God.

I figured these generators would be something like eHarmony.com. You know, that really profound dating site that plumbs the depths of your soul and ferrets out the plums of your essence, helping you know your true self and find your yin if you’re a yang? Yeah. That one. I could hardly wait to go through the process, answer the questions, cry at the revelations and resolve my guts out.

But it wasn’t like that.

Anticipating a high-tech tool that would take me to the next echelon of internal evolution, I inched toward the edge of my seat and clicked the link to find Monina Velarde’s 2013 New Year’s Resolution Generator.

But to my dismay, Monina, clearly a shallow non-believer, delivers only pre-packaged resolutions in a most cavalier manner. “In 2013 I resolve to make friends.” “In 2013 I resolve to dress up.” “In 2013 I resolve to watch an episode of Oprah.”

What the what? I could only imagine the poor mope who might subscribe to such goals. Could it be Monina herself? Is she an agoraphobic in sweatpants whose TiVo is so full of Real Housewives as to necessitate a promise to watch daytime TV?!

After a faint attempt at cosmic consciousness, “I resolve to accept,” Monina lapsed into “In 2013 I resolve to get jiggy wit it.” So 1998.

Unwilling to be deterred in my quest I tried the Laughing Squid’s generator to find his solo offering, the fantastic – “I resolve to be a rock star.” OK. Following that, the Squid presented a link to Monina!

People! Where is the introspection? The creative thinking? Not to mention the self-respect.

By the way, did you know the top reason people cite for failing to accomplish their resolutions is poor time management? Interesting since improving time management is also among the top resolutions made.

But making resolutions is a valuable use of one’s time, right?

Therefore, with firm resolve (!) I pressed on to The Network Geek who tendered a generator based on The Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook: Holiday edition. At least it’ll be pragmatic, I thought.

Eager resolvers begin with a sentence starter and a blank to fill in from among choices either to start something or to give something up. But the convoluted wording of the fillers came straight out of Trivial Pursuit. You remember those stupid questions - Which of these 1970’s soap opera stalwarts did not begin his career as a shoeshine boy in Des Moines?

To wit: I resolve not to complain more each day. I resolve to begin giving advice less often.

Still, the Geek was at least interesting with: “I resolve to take a risk each week.” “I resolve to start day trading right now.” (See previous resolution.) “I resolve to start fasting every day.” (But…Isn’t that foregone?) And, “I resolve to give up wearing underwear every day.” (A struggle so many face.)

I liked best the choice to “speak with the dead less often,” though I could never give it up. No one else really listens.

Then, just as I was about to retreat into self-righteousness, there it was. A real, good idea for a resolution that could improve me and make the world a better place. From the Network Geek no less. A computer generated-something to strive for:

I resolve to pray every day.

I’ve already started: Thank you.

Who's counting anyway? The Mayans?

2012-12-26T16:01:00.000-08:00

By the time you read this, we may all be flying through space wondering why we didn’t go ahead and invest in that “survival pod” touted by doomsday preppers. It would have been $48K well spent, given the circumstances of unprotected space travel.

Of course, if we were hurtling toward oblivion you wouldn’t be reading this - so, thanks for your loyalty.

You have to hand it to the Mayans, don’t you, even though they can be a downer. I mean, way to go with the foreshadowing and suspense. They’ve had the whole country leaning forward, tense, anticipating nothing. Kind of like those “fiscal cliff” negotiators in Washington D.C.

Thanks for keeping things in perspective too. It’s never been clearer to me why it’s unimportant to run that dust mop down the hall again.

But what better time than now (my deadline precedes the catastrophic demise of the planet), two days before the Grand Finale, to have one’s life glide past her field of vision?

Let’s start with recent history and have a look at those 2012 resolutions. Play along with a review of your own New Year’s promises, if you dare.

First, I resolved to make a pie. How did that go?

Here we need a flourish - Ta dah!

I made two pies! That’s right, TWO pies! I exceeded my resolution to make a pie by 100%! (We’re going to gloss right over the fact that it took two years to complete this resolution.)

The first pie was pretty darn good if I do say so myself. Crust flakiness. Fresh fruit. Nummy num num num.

And it wasn’t that hard to do…Hmmm! I immediately told myself this could be my signature piece! What I become known for! Everyone will talk about my flaky-crusted fresh fruit pies! When I’m invited to a potluck brunch they’ll say, “Oh Carolyn! Please bring one of your beautiful and delicious pies!”

So I made another one. But the second pie exposed an internal flaw - my already waning commitment to the pie-making proposition (begging the question of why I set the goal to begin with). It felt like doing a remake of “Casablanca.” You cannot top the original.

So, instead of measuring, sifting, blending and kneading, I bought a Pillsbury ready-made piecrust. So ashamed.

But the bigger mistake was telling my husband about the store-bought crust. He said it wasn’t as good as my made-from-scratch crust. That’s supposed to be a compliment, but it just adds pressure leading to a mathematically proportional decrease in the likelihood that I’ll make another pie.

Oh all right! I’ll make another beautiful and delicious flaky-crusted fresh fruit pie! Sheesh! But I will not reveal the origin of the crust.

Second, I resolved to have an Elvis party.

And oh yes, we partied with the King! That party lives on. Even now, weeks after he left the building, our guests continue to reminisce about the jumpsuits and capes, the wigs and sunglasses, the peanut butter and bananas and the Kentucky Fried Chicken. We partied like it was the end of the 13^th cycle of the 400 year revolution of the Mayan calendar.

(You may refer to your “Think Dream Play” archives to relive the details – October 19, 2012. What?! You don’t save my columns?! Well trust me, it was a lot of fun to dress up and sing. You should come next time – if there’s a world, that is.)

So, two for two on the resolutionizing. Extremely effective I must say. How about you? Are you keeping score?

Now might be a good time to jump in since I have to fess up to a resolution that has eluded me through various permutations, compromises, rewrites and gnashing of teeth. It’s in the category of hair shirts and self-flagellation – you know, “personal fitness.”

My incremental progress in this arena led me to the wimpiest of all my 2012 resolutions – to keep better records of my radius and circumference in the faint hope that the other part of the resolution, to stick with my trainer, would produce measurable muscles and reduction in flab. Oh well!

I guess I’ll just have to adopt the Mayan attitude, “It’s not the end of the world.”

Wash your hands and play fair!

2012-12-14T05:30:00.000-08:00

Here’s some good news: The President and the Speaker of the House have agreed not to speak publicly about their negotiations toward resolving the great, fear-laden, nightmare-inducing “fiscal cliff.” You know, the most recent thing we’re supposed to be in a lather about.

But maybe we shouldn’t take this precipice too lightly. After all, the deadline for averting that lulu of a last step falls on the date of the Mayan calendar’s end of days. Who knows? It could be that a Senate page pointed this out to our elected officials; hence their retreat into actual conversation and compromise.

In point of fact, as much as I have clinched my teeth in preparation for the fall, I have dreaded more each new day’s reporting of the posturing and role-playing of the parties of both parts.

So, news of their silence is most welcome. They are to be commended for their shutting up.

Seriously, I know how hard it can be. Sometimes, a person can’t stop herself from turning that clever phrase. I just love a last word, a well-placed bon mot!

Why just the other day, I was one-upping a 2-year-old about the proper method for eating an artichoke. I had him too! He couldn’t overcome my lifetime of artichoke eating experience or my superior finger strength.

But then, in a stunning turn of events, an ambush! He reached up and touched my face!

OK! That was totally unexpected! Dumbfounded, I had to concede. You win, Little Buddy. You win.

Of course I doubt that the President will touch the Speaker’s face. For one thing, it’s unclear that they’ve been in the same room with each other since the last looming catastrophe. Let’s see, what was that one? Oh yeah, the budget deficit. (In spiritual circles we call this recurring phenomenon “deja` poo”: The creepy feeling we’ve heard this crap-ola before.)

On the other hand, if there were to be touching, the President would get first dibs. Executive privilege. Protocol. Pulling rank. Whatever you call it, in terms of debate strategy, it wouldn’t leave the Speaker any ground for recovery. Everything’s second best after the first touch. Mr. Boehner would likely burst into tears; pick up his toys and go.

I don’t think a touch would be out of line, and it is disarming. But the President’s a classy guy. Even though you know that at the very least he wants to throw a pie, considering the Speaker’s propensities, he would probably extrapolate Robert Fulghum’s Rule #3 – “Don’t hit people,” and keep his hands to himself.

Fulghum’s sweet and simple maxims to live by, found in his book All I Really Need to Know, I Learned in Kindergarten might well benefit our hapless representatives whose only stated motivation for resolving the nation’s financial debacle is getting home for the holidays.

God love ‘em. If they would only follow Rule #13 – “Hold hands and stick together!” That’s how compromises are made.

Depending on your point of view, and on the outcome of this latest squabble in the Capitol, we might end up asserting that Rule #1 prevailed: “Share everything.” Or maybe we’ll get a true miracle of planning and execution following Rule #5 – “Clean up your own mess.”

Fulghum got wordier as he went along, averaging only 4.8 words each in the first ten rules, then 26 words in Rule #11 alone. Given that he allowed himself to go on and on, it’s surprising he stopped at sixteen rules.

In these times of politicians needing guidance in the workplace, his Rule #17 might read something like this: “When you’re negotiating with your colleagues to resolve the complex finances of the United States of America, allow them to share the fruits of their hard work and acknowledge their ideas before your take your turn sharing yours.

Or for their sake, we could speak simply: Rule #17 – Shut up. Rule #18 – Listen to each other. Rule #19 – Use the best of everyone’s ideas.

Of course Fulghum never would be so crass or so terse.

And since those guys in Washington so often behave like 2-year-olds, we may wind up with another punt of deal that delays disaster, but solves nothing.

That’s when we can resort to Rule #9 – “Flush.”

This grid makes me itch!

2012-12-13T18:30:00.000-08:00

OK, that does it. Who do I talk to about getting off the grid?

Oh wait. No action needed. Now that I’ve written the phrase, “getting off the grid,” someone will contact me! Men in Black tapping on my windows with smart phones and flashy thingies in their hands ready to scan me, diagnose my disgruntlement, prescribe and deliver just the right thing to make me feel all better.

Most certainly I’ll be seeing ads alongside my Facebook newsfeed touting log cabins, the joys of solitude, composting, and raising worms for pleasure and profit.

That’s right. Before long now we won’t have to say much of anything to prompt the newest savvy search engines hovering in “the cloud” overhead to send down a lightning bolt of customized ads catering to our every divergent thought.

Here’s the deepest darkest news: If Verizon has its way, your TV’s about to become a two-way mirror.

That’s right; soon what has been a joyously stress-free passive experience, an evening transfixed in front of the flat screen complete with bad posture and dribble spots on the fronts of our shirts, will be transformed into a self-conscious job interview with Big Brother: As we gaze in, the plasma will peer back out at us. Sizing us up. Playing that game. You remember the game that used to be innocent whereby you sit in the mall and make up lives and professions for the people you see.

Technology exists now that enables our TVs to look back at us and say, for example, “butcher,” then send you an ad for an apron with that chart showing shoulders and rump roasts and loins. You know the one.

Oh yes. Verizon, jointly with Comcast, Time-Warner Cable and Bright House Networks, has applied to patent technology that will enable TVs to see directly through into people's homes in order to sell them stuff. It’s listed under “Dangerous Ideas” on Big Think.

Get this: Verizon wants to create a "detection zone" around your TV. In that zone, sensors built into the TV would catch "ambient actions" taking place in the room and use that information to display relevant advertising on the screen.

Oh. My. God. If that isn’t the creepiest idea ever to slither its way into the baskets of the snake charmers. It makes MarkZuckerberg look like Casper the Friendly Ghost.

FYI – under the watchful eye of your service provider your unguarded behavior is defined in the patent application as “a wide range of activities, from eating to arguing to playing with a pet.”

If that’s not a hacker’s field day! You know you’re going to wind up in a video set to music on YouTube, struggling with your Schnauzer over that last bit of strudel.

The area around the Plath TV encompasses an array cat toys in various stages of mutilation and dismemberment. It might actually be interesting to see what the commercial response would be to such a crime scene. Would they alert authorities, or send me my own CSI amateur mystery detective crime-solving kit?

And what might happen if two people are observed to be “snuggling together” with the TV on? Included in the patent application is an example of how the technology would work in such a situation: Ads could appear on screen showing a romantic getaway, a commercial for flowers, [or] a commercial for a contraceptive. They actually said that. Like it’s a good idea. Something people might be glad about.

In the same vein, Google’s trying to discover our “unmet needs for information” via GPS chips and “other sensors” built into our mobile devices. Google Now already offers unsolicited directions, weather forecasts, flight updates, and other information when it thinks you need them.

Contextual data can provide clues about a person and his situation, allowing Google to guess what that person wants. “We’ve often said the perfect search engine will provide you with exactly what you need to know at exactly the right moment…without your even having to ask for it,” says Jon Wiley, electronic stalker, er, User Experience Designer for Google.

Ha ha ha! Thanks Jon!

Psst!  Rather than getmyself off the grid, I want to get the grid off me!

Just Google your clutter away!

2012-11-30T05:30:00.000-08:00

I’ve just learned Google’s lofty corporate mission statement is “To organize the world’s information and make it universally accessible and useful.”

Hey! That’s MY mission statement!

Well, at the very least I’d like to know what’s in these stacks o’ stuff on my desk. There may be something important in there! Something universally useful.

And I must sort through those piles of historic pictures of my family in stoic poses from Dust Bowl Oklahoma. (My husband says I have the same stern look as my great-great grandfather, James Ledford. Piercing eyes. Pretty sure Grandpa got his way. It worked for me too, in the public schools, that look. But not so much with the husband and son.)

I have begun a preliminary assessment and laid out the pictures on our pool table in piles by generation and side of the family. But people had to go and get married and then pose with each other across branches of family trees in many orchards, muddling up my system.

If I ever achieve the mission of getting those pics organized and “universally accessible,” we’ll celebrate with a game of 8-ball. How do you like that, Googlemeister?

Then there’s that cache of Tupperware containers in the closet in the guest bedroom that no one but the cats and I ever put noses on. While I have no firm memories of precisely what’s in there, I’m sure as shootin’ not going to throw it away! That closet has a door!

The utensil drawer in the kitchen reflects my ardent search for a perfect egg-flipping spatula. Variations of imperfection are myriad, impressive and all present. They don’t leave the drawer; they just work their way down, lower and lower in the spatula hierarchy, like items on pages 2 through 22 of a Google search. No one’s ever going to look there, click on those links, or flip another egg with any of those rejects.

That’s the utensil drawer. If not organized, at least “useful” by definition.

But the most telling in the constellation of stuff needing a firm organizational hand in the Plath household is the de facto surrender of logic and incomprehensible attachment to the obsolete and unidentifiable jumble of the Junk Drawer.

Chock full of paper clips, nearly spent note pads, rumpled recipes that sound really good, pens with a little ink, mechanical pencils without lead, and leads that don’t fit those pencils. Oh we have crunkled cylinders of epoxy, a bent nail, an assortment push pins and that magnet with the vet’s name and phone number on it. All of it filling the wells and straddling the dividing partitions of a drawer organizer.

Don’t judge until you eliminate your own Junk Drawer!

Google and I have this in common: We provide the illusion of organization and accessibility. We make our paraphernalia appear orderly. I do it with closed doors and drawers, and squared-up corners on piles of papers. I can find most of what I remember I have. I can still get the car in the garage!

I’m not worried about it. I’ll get excited when our extraneous possessions come life at night and dance to the light of the moon.

But Google winks at us with instant access to colorful lists extending to the virtual horizon. Answers to any query at any time. Google’s actually at work now developing software that will anticipate our questions and provide us with what we “need to know” before we even think to ask. Yikes.

This much is clear: We both have too much crap-ola. (Excuse me please. I was overcome by an impulse of truth telling.)

Ironically, you can find self-help sites dealing with disorder, confusion and chaos by Googling “clutter control.” That search produces no fewer than 308 websites offering tips for putting a leash on your burgeoning bailiwick. A person could argue that the list itself constitutes useless, disorganized clutter! But it is accessible!

I didn’t see a single site that sorted out how to sort out too many options available on information searches. And I’m beginning to think Google is the one with the problem, highfalutin mission statement or not!

Meanwhile, I’m pondering Google’s Code of Conduct.

Really. Honestly. This is it: “Don’t be evil.”

Go ahead. Google it.