Category: Shiny Things

TRIPPING OVER TRAVEL

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I don’t often travel for business, and I’ll tell you why. I don’t like it. Not the business part, that’s no big deal. The travel part is what I dread. It makes me surly, snappish and borderline manic. I’m not sure why. I’ve only had one near death experience on a plane, so that’s not it. I think it’s the whole moo-cow, being herded into groups and treated like an annoyance that gets to me. Who trains people at check-in counters these days? Don Rickles?

Before I even get to the airport my heart is racing. I’m worrying about time, checking my bag, getting through security, getting re-dressed after security, then finding a place to park my exhausted self at the gate with that mass of humanity. (And I mean MASS.) Then knowing. Just KNOWING it’s going to be a full flight and I am going to be crammed in with A) someone who is suffering from what could either be the flu or Ebola, B) someone who has no concept of personal space, or C) both.

This time I had a congested, sneezy, snorky person on either side of me, as I was obviously being punished by God for something and was allotted a middle seat. After one explosive sneeze, the guy on my left fell asleep, only snoring on occasion. To my right was Mr. Bobble Head. Eight-week old children could hold their heads up longer than this guy could. Out of the corner of my eye I’d see his head fall forward, then ZIP, up it would go for about three seconds then BAM, back down again. Up, down, up, down…Repeat for 1 and a half hours.

And what happened to drink service? Maybe 20 minutes in, I was craning my neck around to see where the drink cart was. Answer: nowhere. No one else seemed alarmed by this. In fact, everyone else appeared to have been drugged or lulled to sleep by the drone of the engines, just like people do with their infants who can’t sleep. I was essentially in a giant Oldsmobile circling the block until everyone went nighty-night, or mom and dad got too dizzy to continue.

I was definitely the only one concerned for the welfare of our flight attendants and their cart of goodies. Shortly before our descent, they teetered by and delivered a Sauvignon blanc that was not worth the wait. I was also offered ice cubes for it. Sad face.

Once we were on the ground again, I glared Mr. Snuffly Bobble Head into the aisle and jumped up so quickly I banged my head on the overhead bin. Payback for my bad attitude, and for coveting a seat in first class.

I shouldn’t complain. I’m on the company’s dime at this conference, get to learn a few things, and enjoy some room service while I plot my return trip.

Oh, and I feel like I’m coming down with something, so I will complete this little circle of life by freaking out some poor person who gets trapped in the seat next to ME on the way home. Sniffle. Cough.

GRADUATION DAZE

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In two weeks, my youngest stepson is graduating from high school. I feel Jurassic. This is the kid that was 9 when his dad and I married. I amused myself with the idea of people exclaiming, “You can’t possibly have a 9-year-old!” The truth was, I could easily have had a 9-year-old at that time; and a 12-year-old. Which is good, because that’s what I got. Full time 24×7 motherhood to a couple of boys who had little recent experience living with a woman. Especially a demanding, impatient woman with high expectations and a zero tolerance policy.

Poor things. I think we all suffered culture shock, and I’m not sure we ever got over it. But somehow we all muddled through. His older brother, Derek, is at Missouri, finishing his sophomore year. That brilliant “only for special occasions” brain is finally seeing daylight. He’s going to knock their socks off.

Austin thinks he’ll stick around next year and attend community college to get some basics completed. His father and I are not complaining. I never imagined myself suffering from empty-nest syndrome. Frankly, I’m surprised I haven’t been counting the days in anticipation of a house that has no dishes in the sink, no cabinet doors left open, and my sodas still in the fridge when I want one.

Instead, I remember those little boys on the wedding day in their tuxes. Their dad’s best men. I remember how Austin turned green and nearly fainted during the ceremony. (I TOLD him not to lock his knees.) I think about the times I forced them to watch old movies with me, or listen to my running commentary during the Academy Awards. School concerts and sporting events. Meetings with principals (too many) and teachers (way too many). Then there were the groundings, celebratory dinners and funerals.

It’s been a busy 8 years. So busy, in fact, I probably haven’t told them I think they’re amazing.

Best men, indeed.

OF TWEETS AND TWITS

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Like most normal people, I get a little nervous when I hear the President is going to speak on national security at 9:30 p.m. on a “school night.” I tensed in anticipation of either an imminent terrorist attack, or need to send troops somewhere into the world. As time dragged on with no POTUS is sight, I was doing what comes naturally. Thinking the worst.

Thank goodness for Twitter. I thumbed through my phone while listening to various newsmen tread water (badly). Aha! Oh, look!! Osama bin Laden is dead. Whew. That’s nothing to panic about. That’s good news!

I watched the feed on my Iphone go nuts over the next 45 minutes or so until the President made the announcement official. Frankly, by the time Obama came on, I bet my grandmother even knew the scoop.

One thing quickly became apparent. Scheduled tweets are not always a good idea. I’d be scanning a series of comments about Obama, CNN, FOX, Times Square, etc. and in the mix would be someone with design, technology, or social media pitches. Hello? The rest of the planet is dealing with #OBL right now. Social Media Tip #1: Keep your eye on the ball and your finger on the cancel button.

I couldn’t help but whoop with laughter when I saw a response to Lady Gaga’s (I assume) previously scheduled message:

RT @larrybraverman TURN ON CNN GIRL SOME SHIT IS GOING DOWN RT @ladygaga Monsters ready for me 2 announce The Judas Video?

Another comment, not pre-scheduled – I don’t think – was from @ParisHilton around 11:30 p.m. CST: Back in LA. Can’t wait to get home to my pets. I miss my babies.

She caught up twenty minutes later and expressed her happiness with OBL’s demise.

The second thing I noticed Sunday night was the amount of comments that made me uncomfortable for the people tweeting. I wonder if there are any stats available about the number of “unfollows” that occurred Sunday night? Or are Tweeters in general pretty forgiving and open-minded about varying opinions and degrees of, shall we say, bloodthirstiness? I know I typed a couple of things I opted to delete rather than send. It was kinda’ fun to type them, though.

So, as I see it, these are the facts:

The President is a terribly exacting editor-in-chief.

If you’re going to follow someone on Twitter, make it @keithurbahn.

And lastly, Lady Gaga and Paris Hilton are easy targets.

Speaking of targets… Thank you, #Team6.

EXERCISING SELF CONTROL

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks

Well, I’ve done it again. I’ve ordered a piece of workout equipment. I don’t know why I do this, but every now and then I lose what good sense I have and go off to crazyville.

Last time it was the Heavy Hoop. The Heavy Hoop is a 3 lb. “hula” hoop that is supposed to help tone your entire body and provide a cardio workout. When I saw it advertised I thought it looked like fun; after all, I used to be quite the hula hooper. What could be better than a workout that reminds you of your childhood activities? Lots of things, it turns out. The Heavy Hoop was HEAVY, for one thing. Imagine my surprise. After my first swivel I realized having a 3 lb. weight crashing around my waist was not terribly comfortable. In fact, it made me wonder if I was doing internal damage. It DID make me contract the muscles of my stomach to ensure my liver survived the workout. Perhaps, had I stayed with it, I would now have rock hard abs and a slender, toned waistline. Instead, I gave it up, comforting myself with the knowledge that deep down inside, where it really counts…I am a quitter.

After that, I purchased a lovely yoga set with mat, blocks and an instructional video. Have I mentioned my inability to tell left from right when watching a person on TV moving the opposite hand, leg, or direction from me? I was drummed out of dance class at the age of 5 for this. When facing a mirror image, the only directions I am completely certain about are up and down. So basically, yoga was not the relaxing, soul enriching experience I anticipated.

Did I learn my lesson from this? No. Last week I ordered a jump rope. I thought to myself, “Self, when you were younger, you kicked ASS at jump rope.” I envisioned the fantastic workouts I would have, whipping that jump rope into a frenzy. I would tone up, get some cardio and impress my friends with my daring feats of jump rope mastery. What could go wrong?

I’d attended a Happy Hour the evening the rope arrived, so I was feeling a bit more confident than I should. Ignoring the warnings about taking it easy at first so as to determine the level of up-and-down stress my out of shape, post surgical knees can handle, I flicked my wrists and jumped all around the living room. Then I jumped out onto the patio and around the driveway, where I did some doubletime jumping. What I lacked in style I made up for in enthusiasm. Until the next day. That’s when my knees and calves rebelled. When asked about my sloth-like pace that week, I found it difficult to be truthful and say “I’m sore from jumping rope….5 days ago.”

I am determined to try again. This time without the preceding Happy Hour. Ann versus the jump rope begins tonight.

You’ll be the first to know when my commitment/will power/knees give out.

I HAVE NO IDEA

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I’d like to be able to say I get my ideas from quiet moments of reflection, enjoying the unspoiled beauty of nature and letting the cares of the world fall away. However, that would be a lie.

The truth is I am more often than not an innocent bystander to a happy idea accident, rather than a conscious participant. It rarely does me any good to try to force creativity. “I need a good idea NOW.” Ha! Much like a clean restroom on a road trip, there’s never one around when you need it.

My best ideas come out of nowhere, often when I’m in the shower or driving to or from work. Sometimes they come to me at 3:00 AM. (A little advice for others with the 3:00 AM idea generator. Always write it down. You are NOT going to remember it, even though your sleep-addled brain tells you it’s such a great idea there’s NO WAY you could forget it. The sleepy brain is a lying brain.)

There’s obviously some little part of my mind that is “cooking” in the background, trying a little of this and a little of that until it’s ready. Sometimes it comes out like my occasional home-cooked dinners; interesting, but not an experience I’d like to repeat. Other times the result is something I’m quite proud of, but have no idea how to re-create.

Which reminds me. My stepson wants meatloaf tonight and I have no idea what I did to it last time, but man, it was good. Maybe something will come to me…

For more ideas about where ideas come from, click the link below.

#Let’s BlogOff

AND THE DIAGNOSIS IS…

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This whole post may be in bad taste. That said, I was on the phone with my mother yesterday and she was telling me a friend’s daughter had been diagnosed with some sort of mini-seizures. Apparently, the child may have had them for years but no one noticed until recently. From somewhere in the recesses of my brain I supplied the name of the condition. Petit mal seizures. Mom was impressed. So was I. Good news! My brain is not as pickled as I thought.

I googled “petit mal seizure” and read through the symptoms. Eureka! It is very possible my stepsons have had this problem all along, and I too, missed it. (Lord knows I tested them for everything else – ADD, ADHD, autism, depression, dyslexia…) The diagnosis came back the same every time: They’re boys.

I am only half-joking when I say the symptoms could easily be attributed to either of my “steps” AND to most teenagers of my acquaintance.

Symptoms include:
1. The person stops walking or talking mid-sentence. (I always thought they just lost interest.)
2. Hand fumbling. (Don’t get me started.)
3. Fluttering eyelids. (That’s usually the “tell” that they’re conscious.)
4. Lip smacking. (Only after eating cookies.)
5. Chewing. (I assume this is without food involved, so that’s a no.)
6. Staring episodes. (Both these kids space out all the time. I think they are either sleeping with their eyes open, or imagining what their lives will be like once we are dead and they inherit all our flat screens.)
7. Lack of awareness. ( They have both been unaware that sound travels since I first met them. Unaware that they are blocking the TV when standing 6 inches in front of it, and unaware that the refrigerator door does not close itself behind them.)
8. Sudden halt in conscious activity. (One of the boys once left the car parked and running, with the door hanging wide open for several hours until a neighbor called to let us know.)

I will hold out hope they will be miraculously cured upon reaching their mid to late 20s. But I’m not placing any bets. Their father still exhibits symptoms 1, 6 and 8.

Symptoms description from MedlinePlus.

TEN MUST SEE MOVIES (IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT)

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I tend to use cultural references that go right over the heads of my younger friends, so I was asked to make a list of viewing recommendations to get us all on the same page. Next time I say “It’s going to be a bumpy night,” maybe I won’t get such strange looks. I have purposefully avoided anything I thought TOO obvious, such as To Kill a Mockingbird, Philadelphia Story, Bringing Up Baby…

Set those DVRs and let’s hope for some rainy days.

Topper (1937): Cary Grant and Constance Bennett.  A wealthy, fun-loving and heavy drinking couple become ghosts after dying in a car accident. They decide to attempt a good deed by way of their friend, Topper. An original idea at the time. The dialogue/witty banter is inspiring. Drinking and driving. Who’d have thought that was a good way to start a movie?

The Thin Man (1934): William Powell and Myrna Loy. If you haven’t experience Nick and Nora Charles or their dog Asta, you haven’t lived.  Nick is a former detective who finds himself working on a murder case with the help of his new wife. Again, the dialogue is as rapid fire as any David E. Kelley has ever written. The murderer is revealed at a dinner party with all the suspects present. Absolutely classic. They made five additional Thin Man movies, but this is my favorite. More booze.

Holiday (1938): Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn. A young man falls in love with a young lady from a wealthy family. Katharine Hepburn plays the eccentric sister. I don’t know how I missed this movie until last year, but I did. It’s now one of my favorites.  Kooky, well written and plenty of one liners.

It Happened One Night (1934): Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. Socialite runs away from home and falls for a rakish reporter. This was the first film to win all 5 major Academy Awards. Don’t miss the “racy” hitchhiking scene. 

Harvey (1950): Jimmy Stewart. Just in time for Easter! Jimmy Stewart has a new friend. A 6 foot-3 inch rabbit named Harvey. A comedy of errors, and a reminder that we take ourselves too seriously too much of the time. Everyone needs their own Pooka. I blame all sorts of nonsense on mine regularly.

Desk Set (1957): Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn. The head of the research department at a television network falls for the man sent to computerize her office. This movie may not be as well-known as Adam’s Rib, but I fall for it every time.

All About Eve (1950): Bette Davis and George Sanders. I am guessing most people have at least heard of this movie, but maybe I’m wrong. Bette Davis is an aging actress coming to grips with her life decisions and fending off the younger woman who wants everything she has. Classic lines, and a story that is as relevant today as then. Marilyn Monroe has a small role, but a funny one.

The Apartment (1960): Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine. Jack Lemmon is a young clerk who tries to move up in the company by loaning out his apartment to the executives at his firm. Here’s a hint: Their wives would not be pleased. Shirley MacLaine is adorable. 

The Lion in Winter (1968): Peter O’Toole, Katharine Hepburn. (Okay, I’ll make this the last Hepburn entry.) I love watching this movie at Christmastime. Something about watching the family squabbles between King Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine  just says “festive” to me. As two of Henry’s sons and potential successors you’ll see the young Anthony Hopkins and Timothy Dalton. Surprisingly humorous lines from the embittered Eleanor are stashed throughout.  (Peter O’Toole, by the way, is on my list of people to party with.)

Harold and Maude (1971): Bud Cort and Ruth Gordon. This is a dark comedy about a young man obsessed with death and his relationship with a quirky, eccentric 79-year old woman. Sound like fun? Well, it is, if you like that sort of thing.  I’ve told my husband about this movie and he is convinced I am making the whole thing up.  

There’s my list. I think I hurt my head. Thanks to IMDb for refreshing my memory on dates and “stars.”

PUTTING THE FUN IN FUNERAL

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Due to the passing of a friend of mine last summer, and my father (unexpectedly – the day BEFORE my friend) I have been thinking about funerals. Not obsessively or anything, just in passing. (Oops, no pun intended.)

I have attended fewer than a dozen funerals in my life, and frankly, they have been pretty much what you would expect. Pretty solemn. Rarely, someone who knew the departed would speak and elicit a little “acceptable” audience laughter.

My father’s service in late July changed my funeral paradigm. I wanted to speak, but my brain was not functioning. I have a whole new respect for family members who speak at funerals. There was not enough Valium in the world to get me through that experience.

Thankfully, friends of my father performed the eulogy. There were three speakers, all of whom were close to him and able to share fond memories. However, one individual in particular went above and beyond. Briggs grew up with dad in Maysville, Oklahoma and attended OU with him. He appreciated dad as a friend, an artist and a non-linear thinker. He was a gold mine. The man knew almost every embarrassing/hilarious story involving my father and was perfectly willing to share each of them with us. In church!

It was fantastic. Briggs was sometimes emotional while speaking, but fought his way through and delivered one story after another – zinger after zinger. I sat in the front row with my family, alternately wiping away tears and laughing so hard I thought I would fall off the pew. I cast a few nervous glances at the poor, unsuspecting minister, afraid he would walk out, and half hoping he would because Briggs was obviously editing out some good parts.

My friend’s funeral that afternoon was similar. Several speakers, all of whom knew her well and were able to tell stories that brought an amazing mixture of laughter and tears – an incredible gift – just when you thought you would never laugh freely again. It was such a relief to have a similar “vibe” to both services. That day we all agreed – family and friends – if we didn’t keep laughing, we would never stop crying.

If you don’t have a friend who can do this type of eulogy at your service, get some new friends. PAY someone. Hire them. Do whatever it takes. It is a tragedy to sit through a service that feels like one-size-fits-all.

How lucky my father was. And Leah. We should all be so blessed in our friends.

So, who’s doing your eulogy?

Here’s a link to some of Bill Rogers’ art work. (Gallery.)

Side note: I have Briggs’ typed and hand edited eulogy from the service and will treasure it. The stories he couldn’t tell, the paragraphs he crossed out, the words he highlighted as inappropriate for the venue. (Thank goodness.) Even a few sentences here and there directly addressed to my father. It’s the most hilariously inappropriate and yet heart-warming combination of emotions I have ever had the pleasure to read.

STOP THE WORLD SO I CAN EMBARRASS MYSELF

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If you could stop the world for a day, what would you do? 

I had a few knee jerk reactions, but quickly put them aside as being far too boring. So cross off the list catching up on errands or work, sleeping or reading. (You can also cross off thumping Lindsay Lohan in the head. That would be satisfying, but a waste of perfectly good time.)

Instead, I would probably do things I’m too self-conscious to do normally, like:

Go to a gorgeous hotel pool. Since I hesitate to do that in everyday life it would be nice to have it all to myself and not worry about anyone seeing me in a swimsuit. (This would require a bartender NOT being frozen in time for the day. A blind bartender.)

Dance down the middle of the street.  Think Ferris Bueller or Gene Kelley. (Apparently, on this stopped day, I miraculously have coordination and rhythm.)

Sing over the loudspeaker at the BallPark. (Something really embarrassing, like “I am Woman” or “Wildfire.”)

Wear absolutely no make-up.

And at the end of that day, I would have a panic attack, wondering if I had been secretly videotaped doing all those things.

Because the world revolves around me.

For real this time.

 

http://letsblogoff.com/if-you-could-stop-the-world-for-one-day.html

THE BIG SNOOZE

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Sometimes I think the greatest invention ever was the snooze alarm. My clock is a 7 minute snooze. I understand they make 9 minute alarms, but I feel that’s just excessive. Give me 9 minutes and I’d be completely knocked out again, instead of in that semi-sleep mode with my brain slowly stretching and figuring out its to-do list for the day.

Now, while I LOVE the snooze, my husband despises it. He doesn’t understand why I can’t just set the alarm for the actual time I want to get up and then – get up. His hatred of the snooze may stem from the fact he is not getting up at the same time I do, so listening to an alarm go off four times from 6:05 – 6:33 AM is probably pretty annoying.  Just a wild guess.

Sometimes, I mess up the whole routine and accidentally hit the OFF button. Then, I have to quickly set the alarm for 7 minutes from whatever time it is – without allowing myself to wake up too much wrestling with that pesky math problem – and quickly go back to sleep. Seven minutes later, I hit the snooze again.  All is right with the world.

They say people who don’t go through a routine like mine actually wake up more cheerful and energized. I’ve spent my whole life avoiding those chirpy morning people. Why would I want to be one? No, thanks. I’ll continue hitting my snooze, mentally rummaging through my closet in hopes of saving a few minutes of wardrobe selection time and calculating whether or not I really need to wash my hair.