The repurposed writer

Humans still rule

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Wed, 30 May 2012 11:52:00 +0000

In their e-mail suggestions, here’s what the Amazon bots think would make me salivate and rush to purchase.

Select luggage set of three

A camping tent

Tora, tora, tora, Blu-ray movies under $10

Infant Sleep Sheep Four Soothing Sounds From Nature

Nikon 1 camera

Athletic outdoor apparel

14 carat gold earrings for pierced ears

Red sandals

A Black and Decker weed wacker

Popular Science magazine

Hugo dvd

Earth’s Best baby food

4 channel digital video recorder with Smartphone viewing and a 4 pro 550 camera

I know that the actuary tables used by insurance companies probably know exactly what day I will die and my credit card bills give an accurate autobiographical outline of my life choices, but Amazon has me confused with a traveling salesman with a penchant for outdoor living , a new baby who’s not sleeping through the night and a wife who just had a birthday.

That’s why even though bots are getting smarter and humans are getting dumber, humans still rule.

You make pizza? she asked, astounded.

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Tue, 29 May 2012 15:20:00 +0000

You’ll be in the baking aisle, staring at ten different kinds of flour when suddenly another customer, a woman, will ask, Is there any difference between bread flour and regular flour?

I happen to know the difference. When I was a homemaker and made my own pizza I knew to buy bread flour because it had more gluten and produced a chewier crust with more air holes. That was before Lucifer was reincarnated as gluten.

Bread flour has more gluten in it, I said. I buy it for making pizza dough.

You make pizza? she asked astounded. (Even though Elmore Leonard implores writers never to qualify dialogue, this lady was too astonished to let it go unnoticed

Once a year, I said.

Oh, good.

Cooking is nothing to be proud of, I said. Watching all those cooking shows has leached all desire to actually do it myself. My particular favorite is Wolfgang Puck selling his line of cookware.

She looked as if she had been searching for me for several years. I was her long-lost emotional twin sent to validate her secret beliefs.

Then it all came tumbling out as if we had the same script.

Why cook a chicken when you can get one already rotisseried?

Exactly.

Tastes better than anything you can make.

Exactly.

Take out?

Love it.

You save money in the long run.

I know.

You don’t buy food that never gets eaten.

I know.

Nothing to throw away.

I know.

We continued down the aisles making fun of all the stuff being pedaled to the Stepfford wives. What the heck is a skirt steak? I asked.

It looks nothing like my skirt, she said, and it’s expensive.

Look at this milk, I said, the sale by date is a month away. They must think we’re stupid.

We are stupid, she said, for falling for all this stuff.

Well, nice to meet you, I said, and made a u-turn at the pasta aisle. Feeling a bit guilty I threw a Mama Mia jar of tomato and basil spaghetti sauce into my basket and some Barilla fettucini. I hope she didn’t see me.

You can't handle the truth

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Thu, 17 May 2012 14:38:00 +0000

I’ve lied a few times in my life. I probably lie to myself everyday so I can live with the bad habits that have a stranglehold. Perhaps that’s existential lying. Remember that line from A Few Good Men? “The truth! You can’t handle the truth.” Well, I probably can’t. I know I can’t. And what the heck is the truth and is it going to make my life better?

Disclaimer: I didn’t mean for this post to take this dark anti-values turn but it seems to have it’s own agenda.

Pamela Meyer who gives a slap-in-the-face wake up call in her TED lecture on lying, feels we are a post truth society and that even babies fake cry, stop to see who is coming and then continue crying. Bottom line, we are all born liars; it is part of evolution and the smarter we are, the more we lie. Ms. Meyer also points out that lying is a cooperative act. A lie has no power until someone agrees to accept it (even if that someone is you).

Once a cop stopped me for speeding and I told him the truth: “I was rushing to the doctor for a perceived emergency.” The policeman believed me and I was confused. I was so ready to lie to a speeding charge that I lost sight of the truth. According to Ms. Meyer, we are deeply ambivalent about the truth. We are against lying but we are covertly for it. Even Koko the gorilla who learned to communicate so charmingly with sign language blamed her pet kitten for ripping the sink out of the wall.

Here’s the good news: although we are all liars not all lies are harmful. Lying is often used for social dignity. Ms. Meyer says we are lied to from 10 to 200 hundred times a day. She says strangers lie to each other 3 times within the first ten minutes of meeting.

“Is that your Porsche?”

“Yes.”

“Why is that man driving it away?”

“That’s my brother. I told him he could drive it.”

“You two don’t look anything alike.”
“Different fathers.”

Of course lying has an evil corrupting face when it undermines the economy or a government. Corporate fraud has ruined the lives of many and undermined the financial health of the country. Think Enron or Bernie Madoff. In her book, Liespotting, Ms. Meyer shows you techniques for detecting a lie, especially helpful If someone is trying to dupe you out of your life savings (if you still have life savings.)

Some telltale phrases: “In all candor.” or “To tell the truth,” She says, the more we lie the more formal we get in conversation. My favorite Liespotting phrase describes the inappropriate smile after a very sober statement. We all remember President Nixon’s inappropriate smile when he was delivering a mea culpa message. Ms. Meyer calls this “duping delight”. The speaker is pleased with himself for lying so brilliantly. A suspect might describe the bloody death of four people, deny his involvement and finish with a big grin.

Henry Oberlander, the most accomplished con man of all time who could have undermined the entire banking system of the world, had a rule explaining why he was so successful. Henry said that everybody is willing to give you something for whatever it is they are hungry for. Ms. Meyer agrees. If you don’t want to be deceived you have to know what it is you are hungry for, she warns. We are hungry for better looks, height, wealth, intelligence, social standing. "Lying bridges the gap between what we wish we were and what we are." That sounds about right.

Selective news and Jell-O

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Wed, 09 May 2012 11:50:00 +0000

Going, going, gone for One Hundred and Nineteen Million Dollars

Most of us know The Scream as a painting of excruciating desolation. You have to be a learned art connoisseur to appreciate the artistic quality of this painting. My grandmother, Farida, who suffered transplantation during WWI, would probably not have included it when she packed up the few things to put in her knapsack.

The version of The Scream (there are four) that was in the news recently was a crayon pastel with a blood red sky. They say the figure is a man but it looks more like a woman in a shirtwaist dress reacting to a washing machine that has overflowed and is sending a cascade of suds into the wood floor of the living room. The painting sold for 119 million dollars last week. If I sound like an ignoramus making fun of this iconic symbol of human anxiety, it is because I am an ignoramus. The artist left this explanation for the painting in his diary:

I was walking along a path with two friends the sun was setting I felt a breath of melancholy. Suddenly the sky turned blood-red I stopped and leant against the railing, deathly tired looking out across flaming clouds that hung like - blood and a sword over the deep blue fjord and town My friends walked on - I stood there trembling with anxiety And I felt a great, infinite scream pass through nature. (1892)

Norway, the artist’s home, has an extensive social welfare system. Norway has a lot of money acquired from their extraction of petroleum in the North Sea. They keep their money for their citizens and don’t dribble it away on wars and foreign aid to countries that hate them. A compulsory National Pension plan provides citizens with benefits such as universal child support, one-year paid maternity leave, and pensions for old age, disability and rehabilitation. Norway's extensive attention to the medical and financial needs of its people translates into a long average lifespan. Seems like a happy place to me.

Mensa, Mensa, Mensa

A two year old has been admitted to Mensa. The toddler with an IQ of 154 can recite the alphabet backward and forward, count to 1,000 and name the planets in the solar system. Memorization seems to be the measure of genius here. What about original thinking? Has that toddler ever had a unique thought? Can you imagine anything more dreary than going to Mensa meetings where everyone is trying to play extreme smartness. You only hear of Mensa when unlikely candidates are admitted. If Jessica Simpson was admitted, we would be like “huh?”

Jell-O Redux

I haven’t thought about Jell-O in decades. I was never a big fan of Jell-O (the dessert) and aspics (the savory version of gelatins). It would take a lot of money to get me to willingly make an aspic. Last week, I was browsing the baking aisle in the supermarket and discovered a shelf full of puddings and gelatins.

The cursing angel of good, said to me “Why the f**k are you so against Jell-O?” To my surprise, the sugar-free version of Jell-O has O calories. What? I took a box home. It was so good, I ate the entire portion while it was still only half jelled.

Sounds crazy but I think it works, part two

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Mon, 07 May 2012 17:27:00 +0000

The post about the tapping therapy has received hundreds of views and the numbers grow every day. I’m guessing many people want to get rid of personal boo boos and they don’t want to do it the lengthy way on a shrink’s couch.

One of the discoveries I made a couple of days after I used tapping for another problem is that I have a history of setting a limit on how much success is due me. This new insight came out of solving the old problem and that’s what prompted me to revisit this subject and share it in this post. Changing in one arena means you can’t continue to act in the old way in another arena. The rule must be (I’m guessing here) that consistency rules in nature. There’s a book titled “Change One Thing” that implies the same rule.

I don’t have certification for dispensing advice of any kind. I have no formal training for anything except what I have learned through observation and obsessive devotion to cracking the mystery of why I act the way I do and get the results I get. I’m a big fan of the quick fix and highly suspicious of conventional wisdom. Conventional wisdom is often lazy wisdom except when it warns you not to jump from high places.

I’m going to use tapping on this new insight. It will take some quiet thinking to formulate a precise “problem phrase” but that’s part of the process.

If you would like more posts on this subject, let me know. If you have some success with tapping, leave a comment.

SampleSunday: Ch.2 Softgoods: all the pretty things women are dying to wear

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Sun, 06 May 2012 10:43:00 +0000

(Chapter two of the serialization of new book, Softgoods)

TWO

Democracy Mews in the early morning was a prettified bedroom community of townhouses filled with young ambitious couples. This was what developers dubbed ‘the starter home’ purchased when the first kid was on the way and traded when the second kid was still a bump. The central street was reached through a gate that required a coded card. The development was postcard perfect. It looked as if the developer had hired a stager. Lampposts, saplings, tubbed begonias made the residents feel a little richer than they were. Although the backyards were contiguous and owners were in plain sight of each other, there was not a lot of socializing. The residents were at a point in life when they had too much responsibility and not enough money. Those with jobs were not sure how long they would keep them. The times were difficult and most families kept to themselves.

At a corner townhouse about a half-mile in and one street north a dinged and dented 2003 Silver Toyota Camry sedan was parked in the short driveway. A child’s rubber ball was on the path to the front door. Inside a telephone was ringing and it sounded shrill because it was early morning. A machine answered. “You’ve reached 753-0247. We can’t come to the phone. Leave your name and number and we’ll return the call.”

A woman’s voice said, “Come on. You’re there. Pick up.” After a short pause, she continued. “You’re using a refrigerator you haven’t paid for. You’re stealing. You’re a thief.”

In the master bedroom of the house, Carol Lasting, attractive, barely thirty, alone in the lush brass bed raised her head and listened to the message as it continued. “...deadbeat, lazy yuppie deadbeat.”

Carol bolted and picked up the bedroom extension. “There are laws against this kind of harassment. I’ve tried to make arrangements with your company.”

“Put John Lasting on the phone,” said the woman on the other end.

“John Lasting is out of town.”

“I don’t think so. You people are all alike. Same snotty tone. Same snotty sense of entitlement. But not for long.”

The phone line went dead but Carol held on to the receiver. Was the woman right? Did she have a sense of entitlement? She heard breathing on the extension.

“Mom? What’s snotty mean?” It was Carol’s five-year old daughter Rebecca.

“It means stuck up.”

“Stuck up where?”

“Becks, you shouldn’t listen in. Get dressed. You’ll miss the school bus.”

* * * * *

Carol in jeans and tee stuffed a white load into the washer. In early February just three short months ago her life had seemed okay. Not happy and carefree okay but something to work on. Every week, her handsome high school sweetheart and husband, John Lasting, wasted some of their money on gambling. She knew it was happening because he often confessed to her late at night and then promised to get it under control. On the plus side, she still loved him, they had a very nice kid and she had started a parenting/self-nurturing blog that she called Me, Only Happier. The blog was becoming popular enough to attract advertisers. She wrote about parenting in a loving but irreverent way. She spoke openly of the dirty little secrets that every mother kept in the darkest part of her brain. The admissions sent waves of relief to her followers. Oh, good, I’m not the only one. I’m not an evil witch. Pretty soon, if her blog hits continued growing, she could expect an income to start trickling in.

All the hope and elation had dimmed when the truth of John’s gambling caused him to be suspended from his job at the law firm. They had begun to receive ugly phone calls. The partners said John had to take an indefinite leave and go to rehab. Rehab was for wayward celebrities hooked on drugs and liquor. That wasn’t John. She didn’t know at the time that gambling can be as deadly as any drug and it had John firmly in its grip. He hadn’t lied to her about the problem but she was floored by the horrendous damage it had caused. The 401K, their savings, their credit cards were all either empty or maxed out. She couldn’t even find the words to express her shock and John had nothing to add. There’s nothing I can say, he told Carol and she was too frightened to challenge him.

In the middle of his treatment, John had called one day at dusk. She was making a meatloaf with a pickle inside to amuse Rebecca. The phone rang and without any preamble John said, “Carol, I’m not coming home when I’m done here. I’m sorry. I can’t come back to the house or to the routine. Everything I knew is a trigger. I can’t. I’ll be in touch later on and when I get some work, I’ll send money for you and Rebecca.”

For a week she felt nothing and did nothing. If she just waited perhaps everything would set itself right. After a month of nothing, an overlay of panic had set it. She wasn’t all right. Her thinking was all messed up. Her consciousness was frozen over a situation that she couldn’t control. She was too ashamed to discuss her predicament with anyone close to her. She realized for the first time that she didn’t have many people she could trust with her dark secret. Why did she feel it was her fault? Her life was at a standstill. No one was calling and there were no pertinent e-mails and there was an unhealthy stillness surrounding her. She wasn’t scared all of the time. If you walked into her house, she would have been cheerful but when she was alone, there were moments when she could not contain her panic or what she described as a stoic frozen fear that would creep into her nostrils and her throat and throughout her head. There was no space. She was breathing yet each moment she felt she would not be able to take the next breath. During those long spring days when she sat on her sectional couch for hours, she figured out that human beings are able to move on in a world that is basically flawed by hanging on to anticipation. Anticipation of what is going to happen gives people the railing they need to go down the stairs. But right now, she had nothing to anticipate but the horrid sense of failure. And worse than the failure, she had to remind herself that she had not chosen well. She had not had the clarity to choose a good man.

“You stupid, stupid woman,” she said to her mirror image. You chose your life’s partner without knowing anything about him. If anyone had asked back then: do you and John share the same values, she would have snorted like the streetwise kid she considered herself to be. Values? No, no, no. There were no values about it. He looked great on paper and I was grateful. She had even written about it in her blog. Why am I grateful that somebody married me?

This morning she couldn’t get the voice of the repo woman out of her head. She even had some admiration for the woman. Maybe the woman didn’t like acting tough and waking people with that awful message but she had to feed her family and that was her job. She was a grown up doing her job. It made Carol feel worse. She wanted to give in to the despair she felt but her daughter’s small socks and crazy stripped leggings that she was putting in the washer reminded her to just keep it going. She spotted a single red sock on the floor and rushed to dig out the mate before it bled on the white clothes. She pulled the sock dripping pink water and dropped it into a basket. There was a doll lying on the dryer and impulsively, Carol pulled the chatty string. The doll began to talk. “I’m Assertive Sally. I can change a flat tire.” Carol grunted and threw the doll back on the dryer. “Yeah, but can you find a job?” No, you can’t. There are no jobs. What are we going to do Assertive Sally? Tell me.”

Carol McMillan Lasting, the younger of two sisters born to crazy bossy Margaret was supposed to be the normal nice looking child in a borderline household. In high school, she sat at the second best lunch table and her schoolmates voted her ‘Most Competent.’ She had been surprised with the title because she always felt awkward as if she wasn’t sure of her place in the world. Part of it was the ‘fabulous older sister’ syndrome. Her older sister had scorched the earth of Edgemont High, snagged a modeling contract at seventeen and married a Hollywood lawyer who was considered the 18th most important person in the celebrity world, just under Jerry Bruckheimer and above Michael Jordan.

She suspected Melissa Thomas had made up the dowdy title of ‘Most Competent’ to humiliate her for stealing John Lasting away from her. Carol was as surprised as everyone when she had interested the football star. John Lasting was an unexpected bonus that life had thrown at her. Imagine this handsome athlete begins hanging around you and you look around to see his real girlfriend but it is you.

“This is some aberrant shit,” she would whisper to her girlfriend Olive when they would see John coming down the hall with a big stupid grin on his gorgeous face. Olive always replied, “No offense Carol, but I have to agree.”

“An aberration just to annoy me,” Carol would say just before John reached her side. John’s devotion continued through college and they married just before law school. It was only when her love for him grew and she felt secure that he began to drift away not to another woman but to a fierce gambling fever that ultimately ruined everything. There was a day when winter turned into spring and she realized he had been serious. He wasn’t coming home. What was worse is that she could almost see it from his point of view. He couldn’t come back to the scene of his addiction. Maybe marriage and the life they led had caused his addiction.

* * * * *

She shook her long loose hair and ran her hands through it to settle the mishaps of sleep and went to the kitchen to pack a Smurf decorated lunch box. The routine was reassuring and moved her along through all the early morning tasks. Maybe if she just kept doing what she had always done, life would be all right again.

The school bus stop in Democracy Mews was momentarily reassuring, too. Something would come up. After all, she had a college degree and she could type 65 words a minute. It was all about good timing and keeping a positive attitude

Rebecca, almost six was thin with curly unruly hair and huge brown eyes. Carol was glad Rebecca had the thick curls, a replica of her father’s hair.

“You have power hair,” she always told her daughter. “Your good mind is going to take you places but that hair is going to make it easier.” As they waited, another little girl arrived wearing new sneakers and a fancy backpack with a day glow strip across the back. Rebecca stared and Carol could tell she would love a new backpack just like it. She wanted to fit in for her daughter’s sake, but she didn’t and even in this silly situation, she couldn’t help but feel that a big L for loser was tattooed on her forehead. Children leach all of the rebellion out of you. You want to be freaking Betty Crocker: a good-looking soccer mom with plenty of money so the kids can fit in.

“You forgot to give me lunch money,” said the girl to her mother who pulled two dollar bills out of her wallet and stuffed them in one of the pockets of the backpack.

“Can I buy lunch today?” Rebecca asked.

“ I made your lunch. It’s in your book bag.”

“Please. They have pizza on Thursday.”

“Beck, I said no.”

Before Rebecca could plead some more, the bus came.

“I’ll pick up the girls later. Rebecca can come over if it’s okay with you,” said the other mother.

“She’d like that. Thanks.”

As Carol retraced her steps to the house she noticed a white Volvo station wagon inching alongside. The woman behind the wheel gave a short beep meant to get Carol’s attention.

“Hey, wait up,” said the driver and Carol stopped. She recognized the woman as a neighbor.

“A collection agency called me about you,” said the woman as she pulled up. “They wanted to know if I’d seen your husband. If he went to work regularly. If you had a job. If you had visible assets. If you prayed to God or Allah.” The woman’s sarcastic tone let Carol know that at least for now, she was on her side.

“Oh, god. They probably canvassed half the neighborhood.”

“What do you care? I told them I was blind and diabetic and had to give myself insulin shots in Braille.” She pointed to a house up ahead. “They’re big on surprise attacks. The repo guys are after George Chan’s Passat. They hide at the turn on Democracy waiting for George to leave the car on the street. The minute he does . . whoosh!”

Carol shook her head. “Yeah, I guess things are dicey all around.”

“If money’s tight, I could use someone to help me,” said the woman.

“You’re offering me a job?”

“Uh huh. Selling clothes.”

“In a store? A saleswoman?”

“Not in a store. On our own.”

Carol hesitated, about to turn it down. She knew nothing about selling clothes. She had never even been particularly interested in clothes. The offer sounded too casual to be real. And suppose she had to work on commission and she didn’t sell anything? “When do you have to know?”

“Whenever. Tomorrow. Come by. I’m the house with the red door on BlueJay, the block behind this one. By the way, I’m Sheila and you’re Carol, right? I got it from the repos.”

On the way home, Carol felt lighter than when she had left. The job offer wasn’t much. It wasn’t anything she could use from the sound of it but it lightened her spirits and she felt it in her chest. Someone had reached out to her. She had a connection and she was surprised that it meant so much.

For the first time in two weeks, she posted on her blog. Without thinking much about it, she described the process of having her life dismantled by dark forces. She described the panic, the inability to have faith that she could take the next breath and the frozen state of her thinking. Today, she commented at the end, a woman approached me in the street and offered me a job. When I think back, I wouldn’t have predicted that would happen. It’s not much of a job but at least someone wants to hire me. It’s a freaking start.

The tags she put on the post were: panic, despair, joblessness, debt, hope. She received sixty seven comments. Sadly, there were a lot of people who related.

I don't laugh at things

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Fri, 04 May 2012 15:28:00 +0000

Why don’t I laugh at things? There’s a ton of humor offered to me on Facebook every day and there are humorous things sent to me by e-mail with the subject line: this is really funny. This humor is often about women and men, about menopause, about getting old, about sex, about the ungratefulness of children, about the workplace, about fat people. A lot of times the humor is in the form of a long list that supports the premise of the joke. Sometimes the list is the straight man and it remains for the reader to create the joke through recognition. Much of the humor is offered in a frame as if it were a piece of art.

Sometimes the humor is image driven and sometimes it is just words. Either way my brain doesn’t send the laugh signal. I don’t chuckle. I don’t have the bittersweet moment of recognition smile. What is wrong with me?

I know that someone spent good time thinking up these clever things. I often wonder what is the difference between something that is clever and something that is inventive and brilliant. Clever seems to bear the stigma of the charlatan. “That clever fellow will steal all your savings.”

My children make me laugh. They are all funny. Their humor almost always comes out of life situations and their take on it. My children are funny in ordinary conversation. They make me laugh out loud because they are able to hone in on the naked absurdity of a situation and blurt it out as a throw away line.

Eddy Izzard makes me laugh. He infects you with the chaos going on in his head. Joan Rivers makes me laugh. She goes where no one else will go. Recently on Yahoo they offered the funniest joke ever created. Yahoo is “est” crazy, and this joke is just okay but I thought about the joke later when I tried to improve on Yahoo’s joke of the century. Here’s the joke: A man calls 911 and says: “My friend is lying on the floor. I think he’s dead.” The 911 operator says, “Here’s what I want you to do. First, go and make sure he’s dead.” The operator hears several gun shots. “Ok, he’s dead.” As I’m writing this I laughed.

There was a similar joke in the New Yorker. Lassie is on the bank of the river and Timmy is in the water struggling. “Lassie, get help,” gasps Timmy. The next frame shows Lassie lying on the couch in the shrink’s office.” As I’ve admitted here before I also laugh when that dog on television barks “I love you.”

Here is some recent comedy “art” sent by kindly people to help me laugh.

Jesus is ganging up on me

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Thu, 03 May 2012 17:22:00 +0000

I am not against Jesus. I like most of the things he said. Some of the things he said are fantastic. According to Jesus, even if I don’t do a darn thing, especiallyif I don’t do a darn thing, I’m going to have a bucketful of fine clothes or the metaphoric equivalent of free wordly goods. (ref. Consider the lillies of the field. They toil not neither do they spin but even Solomon in all his glory is not arrayed as one of these.)

Is it blasphemous to write about Jesus in this attitudinal way? I don't think so. I think Jesus likes a current vernacular interpretation. I think Jesus would even like a Hollywood Roast where people would make tasteless jokes about him. Like the song says, Jesus was way cool. I think Jesus would laugh louder than anyone and when he took the podium, he’d give as good as he got.

What I think Jesus doesn’t like are the samplers that have invaded my Facebook page to the point where I am reminded every half inch what a slug I am about religion or being good even though I am a slug about religion and being good.

My Facebook page has been hijacked by too many inspirational messages. They've lost their punch. The constant nudging is wearing me down. Where are my peeps? Where are my Christopher Hitchens ironic groupies? Where is my rightful place on this earth?

Here is a sample of what greets me when I visit my Facebook page hoping to get a glimpse of my children or grandchildren and their activities or maybe some old friends that I only get to like-hug on the page.

My friend Sandra and I play this game called “Why didn’t they ask us?” When some product, or game show, or movie or social pastime or Katie Couric’s impending talk show goes down in flames, we call each other up and say, “Why didn’t they ask us?” Right now, I’m predicting that despite all the hype about Facebook’s IPO being the event of the decade, Facebook is going down. Who even understands all that Timeline crapola. Who chose my profile gallery of pictures? Who cares about that anyway? Btw why did Bravo give Kathy Griffin a talk show? She was doing just fine with stand up. Going down. Why did Oprah give up being the most powerful person on earth to spearhead a network? Going down.

This last pix compels me to say: "Oh, now you tell me."

This has nothing to do with anything. I just liked these super alert family of Meerkats.

In case I'm all wrong about everything in this post, pray for me.

Sounds crazy but I think it works.

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Wed, 02 May 2012 16:44:00 +0000

EFT otherwise known as Emotional Freedom Techniques, otherwise known as the tapping therapy.

Is the quick fix always the wrong fix? If it sounds too good to be true, is it not true?

A couple of weeks ago I was re-introduced to a system of eradicating psychological problems by tapping different parts of the body. I am a person who will try every crazy thing that does not require leaving my house. I befriend new therapies because I love and firmly believe in magical transformations. Magic should be in our bag of tools when we arrive in this “vale of tears.” If our poorly used brains and extra sensory apparatus were put to utmost use, magic would probably appear ordinary. Twenty years ago Google would have been thought of as magic? Get the answer to anything in five seconds? Really? Sounds too good to be true.

Ideas appear as we need them and currently I was in need of an escape route from some long-standing circular behavior that was making me unhappy. The handy appearance of the tapping therapy gave me an aha moment.

I had heard of tapping ten years ago when I availed myself of another therapy that sounded bizarre but worked very well called EMDR: a system of bi-lateral manipulation first used to help veterans with PTSD. I wanted to be re-introduced to tapping and went to my friend, Google, and viewed all of the matches for Tapping Therapy. I selected one of the videos that was easy to understand and guided me through the process. The exercise takes about three minutes and I went through it twice. The problem is solved. Yes, I said, I solved my problem. Would I have solved it anyway? I have no idea but investing six minutes on something that didn’t cost anything was worth a try. I’m going to try it again on something else and I’ll let you know how it works out.

Meanwhile, if this idea interests you, here’s a link to one of the sites. There are several matches on Google and they are all pretty good. Some of the sites explain the way the therapy works. Some of them offer classes or things to buy. I didn’t buy anything; I did the exercise on Dr. Mercola’s page with Julie.

http://www.eft-alive.com/how-to-do-EFT.html

#SampleSunday Softgoods: All the pretty things women are dying to wear

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Sat, 28 Apr 2012 22:47:00 +0000

(I have finally finished Softgoods and will be putting it up on the kindle in the next couple of weeks.
This is Chapter One. I may experiment by putting up a chapter every week before publication.)

Preface

In the retail world, some goods sold are considered hard (furniture, appliances, linens, etc.) and some are softgoods: among the latter are all of the fun and fabulous things that women are dying to wear to make them feel very good.

ONE

It was early morning. No hint of the pretty June day the weatherman had promised. When they say gritty streets, they meant this one. It was a midtown side street in New York City’s garment district. Truck drivers maneuvered to connect with gates and loading docks to disgorge finished garments. The drivers were grubby and cranky.

A rack of Marc Jacobs Crayola yellow silk jersey tank tops with matching lace and taffeta skirts rolled down to a showroom floater piercing the dull surroundings with a tsunami of color. A rack of white organza Armani trench coats followed. A rack of lime classic Chanel suits with the skirts shorter than the previous season also followed. A trucker jockeyed a twenty-four foot truck into the last empty gate. The guard waved him away.

“This gate’s spoken for,” said the guard.

“Where am I supposed to dump?” asked the trucker. Dump was a harsh word for the wool and silk Karl Lagerfeld jackets.

“Not here. Move it.” There was a shotgun by his side and he made it visible.

“This for you,” said the trucker. He gave him the finger and then turned the finger sideways. “And this for your horse.” The trucker continued backing up to the gate but didn’t unload.

Fulgencio Coto, a driver for Witter Trucking had arrived ten minutes late. The spot he paid the guard to save was gone. He’d have to unload with hand-trucks. Fulgencio got out and went to chew out the guard. He was late because his pregnant wife was in labor and screaming that her water broke. Ay Dios mio, el agua, el agua! He had to take his kids to his mother’s house and put his wife in the hospital. He needed to finish up and get home.

It was after eight and the street was getting crowded. Elevator starters and janitors had arrived. Street people skulked toward Penn Station to sleep a few hours in the waiting room before the cops made them move along. In the seconds Fulgencio’s truck was out of view a well-dressed dandy, Zander, slid into the passenger seat. He had on a full rubber mask of Humphrey Bogart topped by a wide brimmed Panama hat. It was Casablanca on Thirty-first Street.

Fulgencio re-entered the cab of his truck. Distracted, he went to put it in gear. He saw his bizarre guest and felt the 45 nudging his right kidney and reacted with surprise and fear.

“Drive out through the Lincoln Tunnel. Look straight ahead,” said Zander.

Fulgencio turned to his passenger and got a smart crack to his head. “Okay, man, I don’t look.”

They drove through narrow cross-town streets, through the Tunnel, along the Jersey Palisades onto the New Jersey Turnpike. At an isolated spot along the marshlands, Zander put a hand on Fulgencio’s arm. “Pull over, hand me your wallet and cell phone and get out.”

Fulgencio complied and stood frozen in place by the side of the road.

“You don’t move for six hours,” said Zander. He took a twenty out of the wallet and threw it to the ground. He looked at his watch and then down at Fulgencio. “My mother told me the morning belongs to the angels. I don’t kill anybody before twelve o’clock.” He waved the wallet. “But I know where you live.”

After a mile of driving, Zander took off his hat and pulled off the mask to reveal an olive skinned man in his early thirties. He continued driving the Ryder 24 footer until he reached a stretch of the Washington Beltway. A sign said: WELCOME TO THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA. It was barely afternoon and he had already easily accomplished the day’s work. He had a truckload of high-end goodies and his willing accomplice would unload them to the eager soccer moms of the nation’s capital.

The sound of one's name is the sweetest? Not always.

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 05:11:00 +0000

When I write that my brain-o-meter dial is all the way to crazy, I get a lot of hits on my blog. We like to hear about someone going crazy because most of us feel just a few steps outside of crazy town ourselves. Yesterday I had one of those days. My first mistake was going into a bank. Two minutes in for a transaction with Ms. China Vargara and I felt as if someone had poured lead into my bloodstream and all the blood had gone to wait out the pandemonium in a cavity near my ears. I think it was the contrast between the bright sunlight (outside) and the industrial light (inside.)

In order to let me withdraw a substantial sum Ms. Vargara, asked me where I lived and my birthdate. I couldn’t remember either answer. All that blood near my ears had erased my memory. Fortunately, I had my driver’s license and handed it to her. Not two seconds after the transaction she said, “What else can I do for you, Consuelo.” What!!!!!!!!!!? I don’t like the bank calling me by my first name. Hey, we haven’t been introduced. This institution handles my money. I want a little decorum. I would never say, “Have you ever faced the barrel of a gun, China?” The name tag has her full name for a reason. China proceeds to tell me that if I get one of their credit cards they will give me $100. Somewhere in this organization there’s a training manager that is telling these front line people that they should call the customer by his/her first name and then try to sell them something. The rationale must be that the sound of one’s name is the sweetest and when the bank says it, your dopey inner child thinks it is finally back in the arms of their long ago nanny. You are going down a bad road, Capital One.

The bubble over my head with a crisp $100 dollar bill in it, takes some of my crankiness away. By the time we get to a desk to finish the credit card dance, I begin to quiz her in an aggressive way. Is there an annual charge? When do I get the hundred? Do I have to do something else to get the hundred? She gives me all the right answers and then hands me a bunch of pages with tiny print. Uh oh. Why all this material? Am I going to find some bad stuff that you don’t want me to know? She reassures me again and then she says some magic words: they don’t give the hundred dollar incentive to everyone. I’m old enough not to fall for this faux flattery but stupid enough to let it seep into my brain pan.

I leave the bank both disturbed and slightly satisfied.

St. Mildred's Academy For Girls

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 12:17:00 +0000

(This is a recycled post that was brought to the fore because Google showed this post to an innocent soul who searched for St. Mildred's Academy. I wish I knew that person and we could chat about this school. I had done the same thing last July. )

Today I looked up my old boarding school on Google to see if it was still in existence or whether I had imagined it. St. Mildred’s was in Laurel, Maryland, a town midway between Washington, D.C. and Baltimore. It is where I learned to sing the Mass in Latin and to withstand horrendous bullying condoned by the evil Sister Francisca. I remember two happy moments in that school: winning the bingo game with the prize being several Hersey chocolate bars (maybe even a whole box) and being chosen as one of the girls to accompany Father Pete to a restaurant for a spaghetti dinner. The rest of my stay there was not joyful. The food was dreadful and we used to make a meal of mustard and bread when the main dish was inedible. We even made a song of the mustard and bread menu that is too long to go into. One night we were served tapioca pudding that several of us refused to eat and it ended in a standoff with Mother di Pazzi, the Mother Superior. That night, I gathered a posse of girls and convinced them to run away with me. We walked into the town of Laurel, borrowed bus fare from one of the older day students, (we banged on her front door) and took the bus to Baltimore. Our destination was a bar owned by the parents of a girl in the group. The minute we arrived, the bar owner (after a brief conversation with Mother diPazzi) put us on a return bus to the school. St. Mildred’s, like many boarding schools, was rife with crazy kids from wealthy dysfunctional families (myself included). During my stay, all of the children from the Embassy of the Dominican Republic were there and occasionally, I would go home with them to enjoy fantastic formal parties. Fortunately, my father owned a boutique department store that supplied me with long gowns. I cannot stress enough how incredible that seems to me now. Google is an insane miraculous tool that collapses time like it was nothing.

One Hundred Open Houses FREE on Amazon

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 11:24:00 +0000

This is your chance to sample my writing for free. As I said before, this book is close to my heart because I wrote it when I was certain I couldn't write anymore. I pulled it out of my head in a trance that lasted several months. It has received wonderful reviews from women who, like the protagonist, are sometimes on the edge. Today and tomorrow, you can download it on Amazon for nothing, zero, nil, nada April 18 and April 19. Click on the title to the right of this post and you will be transported to the Amazon page.

Security questions, regrets and who the heck needs this? (redux)

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 13:23:00 +0000

(This is a recycled post written a year ago. Sometimes visitors to my blog will look up an old post and I get a chance to see it again. Sometimes, fool that I am, I like it so much I feel it deserves another view.)

Sometimes, I force myself to leave the house and visit one or the other of my children and use their computer to monitor a small investment account that I keep with a well-known brokerage house. When I log in, the system always asks me to answer one of the peculiar questions they have devised to keep the wrong people’s hands off of my money.

One of the questions is: In what city did you meet your husband? I have been divorced for over a decade and now I have to dredge up the city where we met and that also dredges up the circumstances and I have to re-live that drama and the fact that I allowed that marriage to fail and now live alone like a loser.

Another question they ask is in what city did your paternal grandmother live? Since I am of Palestinian descent, I have to go to Google so that I spell Ramallah correctly and then I have to dredge up how this city does not belong to the Palestinians any more and blah blah blah. (Ramallah, btw, was distinguished by the fact that it was settled in the early 1800’s by five brothers and everyone who lived there was related.)

Another question is: Who was your favorite childhood friend? I was raised in convent boarding schools where all the students, me included, were demented and came from dysfunctional homes. The friendships were bizarre and often exclusionary (as in being excluded and bullied). Then I have to remember that sometimes I took my turn at being the subject of bullying and then would stay in bed and pretend to be ill so I wouldn’t have to face the bullies. We slept in attic rooms in narrow cots that remind me of that wonderful movie with Michael Caine based on the novel, The Cider House Rules. One year when I didn’t attend boarding school, my favorite friend (like Charlie Brown) was a red-headed girl named Thomasina Thrasher. Hey, Thomasina, if you are out there and read this, please get in touch.

Another question the brokerage firm asks is in what city was your mother born? My mother, although of French descent, was born in San Salvador. Recently I’ve learned that it was not really San Salvador but a smaller village named Zacatecas. Then I have to remember that my mother and I were both born at home and it was up to our parents (I use the term loosely) to register our birth with the authorities and our parents were negligent and imprecise and in my mother’s case they got the name of the village wrong. In my case they got the date wrong. Then I remember how my mother and I traveled to the United States by bus through Texas and for the entire trip the only thing I ingested was Coca Cola, a drink that in those days was made with syrup and soda and still had cocaine in it. I arrived in the U.S. a mild dope addict.

These are all things that happened a long time ago so please don’t leave sympathetic messages. I am quite happy now except when I have to use a strange computer and TD Ameritrade asks me all those questions.

On the e-publishing front. I did something different with my latest offering “Thinner Thighs In Twenty Years,” a monologue I wrote in the early 2000’s and was performed at the Seattle Film Festival and at the Periwinkle Playhouse in Sanibel, Florida. I submitted TTITY to Kindle Singles. Kindle Singles is different from plain Kindle publishing. You have to submit and be accepted. My publishing buddy Sandra who has published over twenty excellent books and has earned my total respect says she never again wants to submit anything that has the chance of being turned down. I still enjoy being humiliated so I submitted Thinner Thighs. And, guess what? They took it and will launch it next week. Because of my inability to accept acceptance, I surmised that perhaps no one was submitting Kindle Singles and they were accepting anything that came their way. I’ll let you know what happens when you publish a Kindle Single.

#SampleSunday: "I'm so worried and afraid."

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 09:44:00 +0000

(A sample from One Hundred Open Houses,the book that saved me from despair.)

“All my stocks have gone down. I’m so worried and afraid.“- Itzonlyphil

It’s been very windy for the last few days. When you are in wind, you can’t think of anything but the wind. I just read a book that frequently describes the outdoors. It describes the colors of morning and evening as they invade and enhance the rooms in a small apartment. It describes the blue of the sky reflected in a river. After reading all of this loving observation, I realize the only thing I notice is the wind. I don’t like wind and yet it’s the only thing I describe. I’m all closed up about the visuals. When I tell Maggie about this – that I don’t describe the outdoors, she says, “Good. People just want to know what happened.”
I have to park the car far away from the office because the “season” is almost here and the parking rules have changed. By the time I get inside, I’m relieved to be there and I’m happy to see Louise. Because the office is warm and I had a brisk walk to get there, sitting at my desk and opening my e-mail feels good.
On Channel Five, which I’ve started to watch in the early morning, they say we are addicted to e-mail and now that you can check it from your Blackberry or some other portable device, you can indulge this worthless addiction at every moment. Whenever I e-mail a high executive I notice they e-mail me right back. Please distract me from this humdrum existence that has no discernible meaning. Life can be humdrum unless you are trying to save yourself in a tsunami or have locked yourself out of the car and are trying to think of ways to get in. That distraction factor, however, is responsible for people losing a big chunk of their lives. You think – how did it get to be 2006, it was just 1998 a minute ago. Dr. Phil will beat you down on this issue and exhort you to shape up, get rid of the remote, get rid of the Blackberry and face your life. But let’s think about this a minute. Suppose there’s nothing much down in the sinkhole where you stuff all the things that made you what you are? And suppose even if you have the energy and the bucks to dig it up, you can’t do anything about it? You are always going to have that nervous laugh and the receding chin isn’t going anywhere either.

It is on mornings like this, when life seems pleasant, that you have to remember your goal and not just fall back and say, “oh, this is nice.” Everything – yes, everything, is conspiring to keep you in the status quo. The little dumb baby inside you is just wailing to hear the same story for the millionth time. And it is a dumb baby, trust me. You have to shake some sense into that baby and say, look, I’m sick of that story, so just shut up. You’re getting something else.
My line of credit came through from the South Fork Bank and I have the money all ready to go – it feels very responsible, although the whole premise of banking is nuts. I’ve left two messages with Kay Kimbel about 6-B but she has not returned the calls. When I call the general number of CityDwell, they tell me she does work there and checks her voice mail every few hours.
On the financial front, that stock that management wanted to steal from me keeps going up. I have no idea why. It trades on the pink sheets. No, I don’t know what that means although I have an idea that some stocks are thought to be “naughty” and not fiscally sound and they can’t trade on the regular markets although god knows a lot of really bad stuff goes on there, too.
I go to the New York Times Real Estate site and print out all of Sunday’s open houses. It’s late spring so there are lots of choices. After I have my little stash of goal candy to keep me on track, I return to work.
Two of the e-mails are from potential sponsors: the private banking division of a big financial institution and a new magazine that is going to be launched in the Fall. The new magazine is a lifestyle magazine. Who is reading all of these magazines? In this resort town, dozens of magazines are given away free. They are stacked on the street or in the supermarket. I don’t get it. Have you ever done anything a magazine has told you to do? I did once. A magazine gave me a picture-by-picture blueprint for making manicotti with home made wraps that now I know were crepes. I made that recipe at least a hundred times during twenty-three years of marriage. You’d think I would have remembered how to do it, but I dragged out that torn, stained page every time. Altogether, I cooked about 7000 evening meals. Probably more.
The private banking division wants to bring twenty of their best clients to the Festival and give them entrée into a situation that would not be available to them even though they have bucks coming out the wazoo. They don’t want the movies. The private banking clients can probably buy the freaking theater and see all the movies they want. What they are hoping to experience are the exclusive private parties with stars. The bank people want to say to their private clients – because you let us play with and often mismanage your millions, we will reward you with the opportunity to rub shoulders with movie stars. Is it any wonder celebrities are nuts. Look at what a commodity they are. I take the whole issue to Shana and she says to me: “Give them everything – a concierge, five star accommodations, private transportation and, if they want, a private screening with a party afterward. I have no idea where we are going to get a concierge (or even what that concierge will do) although on paper it looks like we know what we are doing.
I won’t tell the Bank that there is no guarantee that any star we invite will actually show up. Celebrities are notorious for not showing up. A lot of stars we invite get sick at the last minute – one died.
The magazine, thank god, is not a competitor of the pseudo porn magazine. It’s called Minimal. The basic premise is that you are better off if you can make do with a toothbrush and a bowl. All the other stuff is weighing you down. I used to like Real Simple until they began getting too cute on me. It’s okay if dental floss has an “aha” use for mending a button, but after a year of wracking their brains they are now saying you can use bubble wrap to protect your fruit from bruising – that’s when I lose interest. Now if they are willing to get “dark” I can give them “aha” uses a plenty. Scrub the kitchen floor with a bad carpenter, for example.
I call the marketing directors of the bank and the magazine and outline what I can offer them. I’ve become very good at this part of the process. I ask them to tell me their objective and then outline how we can fulfill it. Sometimes they ask for specific events and I say, ‘no, that’s not the target audience you are after.” When I say that to a sponsor I feel like a competent facile little marketing whiz. Who knew all this business know-was buried inside a whacky aging soccer mom?
I create two proposals, e-mail them and then answer the rest of the e-mails most of which are from other sponsors in various stages of the process.
I open the Yahoo home page for the first time that day and go to the message board of a stock I had chased and then abandoned because it ran away.
ItzOnlyPhil has posted this pathetic message. :
I think now is the time I should take my small loss because all these guys make a lot of sense. I was bamboozled. I should not have bought a stock that was going up – Jed says they sometimes go down – I should have listened to him. It has gone down…all my stocks have gone down. I’m so worried and afraid.
I hear you brother.
It’s Ben’s birthday today and at Mass I said his name. I said: for my son Ben who was born on this day. Ben’s going to come and visit on Saturday. This is how I usually get ready for my second child. I take a shower and blow-dry my hair. I put stuff under my eyes that takes away the puffiness and pulls the skin tight (I know! but more about that another time.) I definitely clean up the house. I put on a Louis Armstrong sings with Ella cd that he gave me two Christmases ago. I buy a big ham because twice he’s mentioned ham and I fed him something else. I try to get some good movies because we like to watch movies together. I pull all the weeds out of the rock bed he created where I needed better drainage to remind him how great the project came out. He’s going to want to climb up on the roof and clean out the problem gutter, but I’ll tie him up if I have to. I don’t care if the house falls down; I never again want him to climb up that steep slope.
My friend Ned – the Ned who is blindingly handsome - came to clean my gutters last Fall (not the scary gutter). He brought another handsome man with him and that was good because he was a surgeon and really knew how to clean out small spaces. I know this sounds preposterous but its true. One held the ladder and the other scooped matted wet leaves out of the gutters. I gave the surgeon an old sock and had the nerve to ask him to wipe out the last bits with it. When they finished, I cooked them omelets with pesto and goat cheese and we sat around.

Vote for my blog!

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 11:37:00 +0000

My nature is not to participate in popularity events however I am so proud that I was able to transfer the voting widget to my blog successfully that I am willing to have you use it. So - if you are so inclined, please vote for my blog. I have no idea where these votes are recorded or if the widget works but I got it here and that's good enough for me.

In case I haven't made it clear, I am grateful for each and every reader of my blog. I never expected to have a group of faithful followers but wishes do come true. I'm not just saying this so you will vote.

"These five foods will....."

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 12:50:00 +0000

I grit my teeth. According to my dentist, I grit my teeth all night. What’s that all about? Am I trying to open a tight-lidded jar of pickles every night? My dentist says gritting your teeth is like putting 20,000 lbs of pressure on your jaws. Really? It’s the same as if a cement truck with enough live cement to re-pave I-95 just landed on my sweet rounded jaw?

Why does everyone want to scare us? Every day, Facebook and Yahoo present health and nutrition news that will keep you sleepless (at least you won’t grit). I’ve read all of the “These five foods will.....” warning stories. Spoiler alert: the answer is always bananas, sugar, anything made of white flour, carrots and dried fruit. Bananas are apparently champions for promoting belly fat. If you have belly fat don’t even wear anything from Banana Republic. The Acai berry (a frequent visitor on my Yahoo page) sucks the fat right out of you while you watch Bravo. You are so full of energy you bounce around like a ping pong ball. Alas the berry is controlled by thugs that sell fake or diluted Acai. Resveratrol is the answer to everything and it’s in red wine. (Yipee!) Wild salmon and blueberries are also the answer to everything. Wild salmon, by the way, is $24 a pound and blueberries are $4 per 8 ozs.

I have a mouth guard for the gritting problem. When I remember to insert it I look like an extra from Planet of the Apes because it pushes the upper part of my mouth out. I think about all of this when I’m in the shower. Water promotes deep thinking. As little Edith Anne used to say “ and that’s the truth.”

The Earl of Picnic

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 12:32:00 +0000

There is a man with a newborn and a fourteen month old. I might as well say, there is a man who has not slept consecutively in quite a while. He says, “It’s no picnic.” I think, what if I gave him a picnic? Would it be the salve it’s cracked up to be?

I don’t remember when I was last at a picnic. I don’t remember having said, “Oh, that picnic was so much fun it’s the opposite of this crushing responsibility.” I don’t remember saying, “We’ve been so leaden with care, let’s plan a picnic.”

There is a Judy Garland movie called Meet Me In St. Louis. It is set in early 1900 when people travelled by trolley. There is even a song in the film that Judy sang: Clang, clang, clang went the trolley. Ding, ding, ding went the bell. Zing, zing, zing went my heartstrings. For the moment I saw him I fell. She didn’t literally fall down. She fell in love. Okay, in those days before texting and Angry Birds, and Pinterest, there was not much to do. I think of that as the time when picnics had their heyday.

When families needed adventure, they would abandon their dining room with all that mahogany sideboard stodginess and haul their food out of doors. They would drive an hour or two in their Model T’s. They would lay out their chicken and potato salad and apple pie and eat on the damp grounds of some vast outdoor space. Maybe like the Earl of Sandwich, the Earl of Picnic invented this activity when in a fit of pique (when was the last time you had a fit of pique?) he took his kidney pie out beyond the moat. I’m going to ask Eddy Izzard about this.

Despite their jolly press clippings, picnics are fraught with anxiety; flies and that old friend salmonella are the least of it. There are ants, spills, Uncle Herman stepping in the potato salad and finding a level few inches on which to place your drink. Whenever I want adventure, I eat a sandwich on my deck. I make a decent sandwich with good bread and carry it out to the deck, sit on a chair and eat slowly.

If you have to eat outside take your coffee out to the porch steps on a summer morning before everyone is up.

Chores

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 17:11:00 +0000

The other day when it was 75 degrees in East Hampton, I felt like doing some chores. Chores are easier than writing and with almost the same satisfaction. By seven am I was already looking over my front yard to see if the clean up I began two days ago still looked good.
I get a little ocd when I clean up the yard. The first day it was a quick rake of leaves, sticks, debris. The next morning I picked up the leaves left by the rake. Today, I scoured the area and did a third pick-up. When I was satisfied I stuffed the debris into two old sheets and took it to the recycling center. The yard waste area in the East Hampton Recycling Center is a marvel of industry. There are huge task specific machines processing everything. In one area there is a mountain of wood chips made from all the twigs and branches. In another area there is a mountain of black gorgeous dirt made from all the rotted leaves. In a third area, where I am headed, there is the current dumping pile. I left my contribution and headed home.

After ten minutes of checking my e-mail I debated whether to put in new ceiling light bulbs in the kitchen and the vestibule seeing as the lights have been out for a couple of months. Yes, I’ve been using the kitchen without overhead light. I cannot quite reach the fixtures by standing on a dining room chair. Normally I would put a phone book on top of the chair and wobble around while holding the glass fixture in my non-dominant hand. Today I went to the garage and got the six-foot ladder, hosed off the muddy feet and brought it into the house. I changed both light bulbs, washed the fixtures and said, “Let there be light.”

As long as I had the ladder out I noticed some sticks peeking out of the gutters on that side of the house and realized I had not cleaned the gutters the previous fall perhaps not even since Hurricane Irene although that seems impossible. I made do with the six-foot ladder and by stepping on the last rung was able to see inside the gutter, grab the matted debris and run the hose down the spout to clear it. It was lunchtime. There was nothing to eat in the house except some stale cheese and a bag of “power greens.” Usually when there’s nothing to eat in the house I make oatmeal or pancakes or cream of tomato soup with a can of crushed tomatoes and some evaporated milk. I made the soup and put in some “power greens.” I also salvaged a piece of the cheese and melted it on a Mission Jalapeno wrap.
While I was eating I watched the Barefoot Contessa on the Food Channel. Ina Garten is so darn classy, she could be making a bologna sandwich and I’d watch just for the ambiance. On that show she was making crab cakes and celery root slaw (she called it remoulade) for her friend Tess who was coming over. She took this huge gnarled looking root about five inches wide, peeled it and then julienned it in her processor. That took about 30 seconds. She sprinkled lemon juice on it so it wouldn’t turn brown and then proceeded to make a sauce that even with my love of all things Ina, I couldn’t agree with. A cup of mayonnaise???? I was also shocked to see her use 4-C breadcrumbs in her crab cakes. Maybe shocked is too strong. I was interested in a twisted way. After lunch I put the ladder back and began to tackle the back yard that is still a mess. I raked half of it and loaded the leaves onto a sheet before calling it a day. I decided to itemize my actions on this sunny day and make a blog out of it. Some times you just want to hear about how people go about things and this is how I went about things on a bonus sunny day in March.

You are like so Renaissance

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Sat, 17 Mar 2012 14:23:00 +0000

Christian Singles is for those who are looking for love within the restricted dating pool of people who practice Christian values. But what about the rest of us? Are there any personality specific dating services to fill our quirks and issues? I'm happy to share the following list and also the vignettes of those satisfying first dates.

Froot Loops Singles

Did you take Froot Loops to mean a code for crazy?
No. I took it to mean Froot Loops as in the best cereal on earth.
Good. That’s what I meant, too. Let’s bowl up.

OCD Singles

I have to use the sink to wash my hands.
No. I need the sink to wash my hands.
You don’t understand, I HAVE to wash my hands.
No. You don’t understand I HAVE to wash my hands.
This is so cool.
I know.

Schizophrenic Singles

I’m deliriously happy. I can fly.
I can fly, too. Let’s go on the roof.
Wait. Now I feel like killing myself.
I feel like killing myself, too.
Really? That is so cool.

Esoteric Singles

I’m taking a course in lute tablature.
I’m taking a course in 15th century undergarments.
You are like so Renaissance.

Morbidly Obese Singles

How many pizzas should I order for us?
Four.
Why not six?
Okay, six.

Ironic Singles

I once saw a fire engine that was on fire.
My mother ate a cookie before dinner and spoiled her appetite.
My procrastinators’ meeting was postponed..
My banker defaulted on his loan.
I’m not quite sure what irony means.
Me either.

Incontinent Singles

I've got to go.
I had to go.

"I go for a man who wears an Adam hat."

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 12:43:00 +0000

The television commercial police is now on duty.

“Anyway you want it.”
“That’s the way I need it.”
a State Farm commercial.

“I need it in the middle of the night.”
“I need it in the middle of the night, too.”
Cold medicine commercial.

“Oh, do it again.”
(with heavy breathing, girl with girl) Fab.com commercial

Okay so what’s up with all this hooker/client dialogue in commercials? Most people I know would never say those words and not because they are prudes. The dividing line between people who speak openly and wantonly about sex and those who don’t is very wide. For my generation and throw convent boarding school in there, we can hardly say breast without falling down never mind “I need it in the middle of the night,” on national television.

Along with the rise of innuendo commercials, there is a tandem appearance of commercials for Christian Singles dating services. Chaste minded citizens are being offered a lewdness free zone where they are assured no date is going to say to them “I need it in the middle of the night.”

Campbell’s has made a commercial for Christian Singles.
“Take your happiness to work.” The happiness offered is not the recklessly sinful “Anyway you want it,” but a microwavable individual serving of Campbell’s tomato soup. This isn’t crazy jumping for joy happiness but when it’s February and you need something warm and tasty to sip while you do your marketing plan Campbell’s soup makes you a little happy, no? And if you don’t go to work, Campbell’s says: “Make your family smile - one spoonful at a time.” So stop your whining Christian Singles there’s plenty on the airwaves for you.

The first commercial I remember that went for the double entendre (btw, the double entendre always seemed a cheap and immature attempt at humor although people still giggle) was for Noxema shaving cream. This gorgeous blonde would say: “Take it off. Take it all off” and burlesque stripper music would play while the man shaved in sync with the music. Joe Namath did one of those commercials. At the time the country was in shock (sort of). The brazen commercial was the talk of the media and everyone had an opinion.

Even before that - maybe during the Kennedy administration - when men still wore real hats there was a jingle that I still remember. “I go for a man who wears an Adam hat. I go for a man who wears an Adam hat. And when I tell him that. He wears his Adam hat.” Woo hoo. (This is not a precise rendition but you get the gist.)

Finally, there is the inexplicable Kohler break-up commercial.
A twenty-something man shows up at his buddy’s apartment with a toilet and sink.
“How mad was she?” asks the buddy.
“She threw me out but I took the best stuff.”
“I’ll get a wrench.” says the buddy.
‘Life with a twist’ is the tag line.
This is one for Dr. Phil. Break-up revenge can turn ugly: throwing belongings out of the window, taking the dog, drowning cell phones but wrenching the toilet out of the bathroom? Maybe.

Thought purgatory

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Wed, 07 Mar 2012 11:59:00 +0000

Alone is good. Being alone and a bit depressed is even better. This is the ideal set-up for breakthroughs if you need one. Most people don’t like to be alone. Some people would rather have a bad boyfriend or girlfriend to avoid being alone. The people who most crave aloneness are mothers with small children. Next are fathers with small children. Commercials seldom highlight a person who lives alone except that woman who falls and can’t get up. Being alone in America implies that you have seriously messed up. Either you are weird and plotting some horrendous public event to get attention or you are emotionally stunted and a loser at the game of life. Ah… that game of life.

I am alone much of the time. I should jump at the chance to hear other voices, other thoughts, other points of view. (I just realized last year that I don’t really listen to other points of view. My ears go numb and I hear whaa whaa whaa like in the Charlie Brown specials.) When I socialize even on the phone, I spend a lot of minutes reviewing what went on - in other words wasting time. The review parade goes like this: how they acted, how I acted, what they said, what I said. Many times I am dissatisfied with my behavior. Occasionally I am dissatisfied with the behavior of the other. Either way it’s a waste. I'm evaluating according to dumb fossilized ideas and it takes place in thought purgatory. Just like in the catholic religion thought purgatory is a circular holding pattern. You are waiting, waiting, waiting to take off but you can’t because it’s so effortless to keep thinking the same thing over and over.

Nothing ever changes or moves out of thought purgatory until you are alone for enough time to become uncomfortable and start thinking fresh untainted thoughts.
Ah...fresh, untainted thoughts.

Ecstasy: what is it and do we want it?

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 13:40:00 +0000

While solving the acrostic puzzle in the Sunday Times I lingered at this clue: ‘Manifestation of pure ecstasy.’ What is pure ecstasy? On first reading, it’s normal to think we want ecstasy at least once in a while.

The definitions are: A trance-like state of such intensity that one is carried beyond rational thought and self-control; a total suspension of sensibility or voluntary motion; the trance, frenzy or rapture associated with intense religious devotion.

Some think ecstasy is intense lust - that’s just your id messing with you. A trance? I go into a trance when I enter a supermarket - that’s just fluorescent lights and big business messing with me. Is ecstasy intense satisfaction? Satisfaction doesn’t transcend normal consciousness. Is it joy: the emotion of great delight caused by something exceptionally good? Joy doesn’t put you in a trance; it puts a big grin on your face.

Looking back on events in my life that left me in total suspension of mental power, I can think of very few. I was dating a famous person and we were having lunch at the Cafe des Artistes in New York City. People were staring at us and I was wearing a big furry hat that framed my face and made me look a bit like Lara in Dr. Zhivago. I was in extreme nervous overstimulation - almost the opposite of ecstasy.

A more ecstasy-like moment came during a vacation in Montego Bay. I sat at a table in a modest apartment across the street from the Caribbean. I was content to sit up straight and be very still, hands folded. I felt perfect health and well-being in every part of my body. Emotion was absent. It was a moment of unremarkable perfection. Unremarkable because there were none of the markers of the physical world.

Another moment came on a summer afternoon in my front yard. I was weeding as my grandson gently crashed his big wheel into a maple tree pretending he was a construction worker. I could hear him murmuring to himself. We were comfortably aware of each other but not together. After a while we went inside and made pancakes. Practically no words were spoken. Again a moment of unremarkable perfection.

Perfect health and perfect balance might bring on ecstasy. Perfect tandem awareness of another, engaged but apart. Two good clues. I suspect ecstasy is the opposite of emotion. It is a sense of rightness in the moment that is intense and profound but also unremarkable. If we try to define it, it’s gone.

Miss Loser Bimbo

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 13:28:00 +0000

When Yahoo news excels in quirky - I pay attention.

1. The salutation (yes, that’s the right word) ‘Miss’ is now officially banned in France. The term will be struck from official documents, along with “maiden name” or “married name”. Instead the authorities are to use the term “Madame” equivalent to the male “Monsieur” Women are no longer forced to state their marital status.

My take: I know some married mothers who would be happy to let you call them “Miss loser bimbo.” if you would babysit for an hour or two and empty the dishwasher.

2. An Ohio woman who compared animal-welfare work to the liberation of World War II concentration camps has been charged with soliciting a hit man to fatally shoot or slit the throat of a random fur-wearer, federal authorities said. She was offering $830 to $850 and she wanted to be present so she could distribute material after the murder. She also asked that the victim be more than 12 or 14 years old.

My take: I have a friend who lets her cat sit on her warm toast.

3. Seven million-year-old elephant footprints were found in the Arabian Desert. Analysis suggests they belonged to a herd of at least 13 elephants that walked through mud, leaving behind tracks that hardened, Researchers also discovered tracks from a solitary male traveling in a different direction from the herd suggesting ancient male pachyderms often left the herd to live alone.

My take: The males leave the herd to live alone? How unusual. Is that the genesis of the Man Cave?
My less sarcastic take: Maybe it was only wrong-way Roy.

4. A 27 lb. surprise that shrimp fishermen found in their nets leaves marine experts stunned.

My take: It wasn’t Jimmy Hoffa. The surprise was a lobster with claws the size of boxing gloves. Marine experts were stunned? Really, Yahoo headline writer? Stunned as in ‘unable to move?’ Now if the big boy had said ‘howdy.’ Note to the Ohio PETA mamma in the other story: Put your gun away, they threw Monster Lobster back in the briny.

Apropos of nothing department: (I don’t know where I found this)
The book our customers most wish for is "Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking."

My take: Hmmmm.

Two things that happen just before you step in dog doo.

noreply@blogger.com (Consuelo Saah Baehr) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 12:32:00 +0000

Facebook ads are always flagging me down with: 'These four things happen right before a heart attack.' They are things you would not suspect like your eyebrows fall out. (That’s not really one of the things just in case you are having a heart attack.) It made me wonder about what other dire events in life give us warnings we might dismiss.

This one thing happens right before you step in dog doo.
You go for a walk while playing Words with Friends.

These things happen just before you become morbidly obese
You sit on the couch and play Words With Friends. A year passes.

These things happen right before you get fired.
You sit in your office and play Words With Friends. A year passes.

This one thing happens right before your septic tank goes bonkers.
That scene in The Conversation where stuff comes up in the motel room toilet that Gene Hackman was not expecting keeps interfering with Words with Friends.

This one thing happens just before you lock yourself out of your car.
You met Sharkey at the corner bar and he ordered you a Lazy Manhattan while you were playing Words with Friends.

Just to round out this mindless post, I have to mention the Mad Men marathon that takes place every Sunday morning .

If you are up at six a.m. because of a baby or a bad love affair or indigestion or the ole soul hole nagging about this and that, tune in to AMC where they have continuous re-runs of Mad Men until eight. Thank you AMC.

It’s not often I’m riveted. Riveted means: Hold (someone or something) fast so as to make them incapable of movement. Yeah, that’s it. So what is it about Don Draper? He’s not afraid of anyone. He says what he means He’s a bad boy that seems to have a noirness about him. Something bad happened to Don that left a hole in his heart or his head.

The dialogue is so...so ‘ole boy.’ At the end of a board meeting where the agency has just been bought, one of the men says: Now that we’ve stopped haggling over the dowry, it’s time to enter the tent and spend the night with the bride. This show makes me say okay to smoking, adultery, making fun of crippled veterans. I’m in a cult and nothing can convince me to leave. Here are a couple of comments made by viewers on the AMC website:

Joan is sexy and manipulative. I hate her and want to be her at the same time. I also like Joy, because she just wanted Don for sex.

When Betty had a one night stand at the bar while Don was watching the kids, I had a huge smile on my face.