Endings and Beginnings

With one day left before 2008 begins, I was thinking today that I'd like to do a kind of post-mortem on 2007. Ask myself what was good about the year, what I accomplished, what progress I made, what things I'd absolutely said I'd do that I didn't, what I didn't do all of but feel good about anyway, etc.

And I was thinking that I want to look ahead to 2008 and put down in writing what I'd like to accomplish or have happen in my life and in the world in 2008, whether I feel I can control the creation and outcome or not. I gave up on New Year's resolutions years ago. But I find it miraculous that when I write down what I want to happen, a year later when I look at my list, I see that somehow the universe has helped many of those things come about without my doing much, at least not consciously. Good deal!

Then I got a New Year's message from a friend, one I've known for many years, though not well. It was one of those graphical e-mails that he sent to many people from his consulting firm that bears his name. In it, he referred to something in his blog. He's a positive person, a motivator, an inspiring guy, so I clicked on the link, and -- don't you love so-called coincidences? -- his blog entry suggested some of the very things I'd been thinking about.

Great minds...etc.

So go check it out! And...Happy New Year!!

Remembering Harry Simeone, My "Little Drummer Boy" Neighbor

When I lived in Manhattan in the mid-1990s, my next door neighbor for a couple of years was Harry Simeone. He is credited as a co-composer of the world-famous, fabulous Christmas carol "Little Drummer Boy" and he wrote dozens, maybe hundreds, of other songs and music for various projects. He was a lively, wiry, gentleman of a certain age (or is that a phrase reserved for women?) whom I met for the first time in the hall. He was in his slippers.

We had probably a dozen conversations in the two years that I lived in that gem of an apartment building (more about that place later). Early on, I baked chocolate chip cookies -- pretty unusual for me, as cooking has never been a great passion of mine -- and took some over to him, all but the ones I saved for me. He loved them and we were pals from then on. He lightheartedly pestered me frequently to make him some more.

I've thought of Harry many times since I moved out of that building at the end of 1996 (BIG mistake to move!). I've wondered if he was still alive but every time I thought of looking him up on the Web to see, I was in the grocery store or in the car or otherwise away from the Web. Well, yesterday when I heard "Little Drummer Boy" for the 100th time this Christmas season (and I never get tired of it, that and Jose Feliciano's "Feliz Navidad"), I finally looked and, unfortunately, Harry died in 2005 at the age of 94.

When we were neighbors, from my bed if I pressed my ear to my bedroom wall, I could hear him playing his piano fairly clearly. I didn't hear his melodious sounds often because I worked long hours but once in awhile.... One day when I saw him out in the hall, he asked me if his piano playing bothered me. "Yes," I said. "You don't play often enough or long enough." I think I was his favorite neighbor after that.

He was so dedicated -- he played every day. Every day. E-v-e-r-y day. Incredible. I looked at my own level of commitment to the important things in my life as compared to that and... well, no wonder he was a phenomenal success. Even in his 80s, which he was then, he was composing music for various projects and people -- for pay. He didn't have to. He wanted to. And, he said, he was doing it to ensure the futures of his grandchildren.

Harry lived alone. But one day, right before I moved, I knocked on his door to tell him I was moving and a woman about his age was sitting on the couch with him. He introduced me to...his wife! I tried to hide my shock and tried to be polite and cordial. Clearly there was a story there, but I never got to hear it. I hope they lived happily ever after.

What a wonderful Manhattan experience to live in that building -- supposedly (according to the longtime staff members there) the former home of Gene Rayburn, Marlo Thomas, Imogene Coca and Grace Kelly, among others. Manhattan House, built in 1950, was the first highrise apartment buiding in Manhattan, award-winning, designed by Gordon Bunshaft of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill. It is still a primo building. It takes up a whole city block, between 2nd and 3rd Avenues and 65th and 66th Streets. Moving out of it is my one great regret in life. I took a job in Washington, D.C., and my lease was up -- I had a person who wanted to sublet it from me, which was allowed, but I thought my move to D.C. would be permanent so I let it go. Eighteen months later when I ended up coming back to Manhattan, prices had skyrocketed and I couldn't afford it. I loved my spacious, generously appointed one-bedroom apartment, for which I paid $1,262.21 a month. Sigh.

My neighbor Harry Simeone was really the only neighbor I knew well ("well" being a relative term), so always and forever, when I think of the rich experience of living in Manhattan House, I will think of the richer experience of having Harry Simeone as my next-door neighbor, and friend.

Dancing with the Un-Stars

On my Boomer Blog, I have a new post that I hope you will read. It's here.

Cell Phones in the Loo

This is the last line in a Nov. 15 article in Advertising Age: "Studies show that the highest percentage of consumers (upward of 40%, depending on the study) use their mobile phone in the bathroom."

Now where did your mind go when you read that? Did you unwillingly visualize someone sitting on the throne with their cell phone plastered on their ear? Did your face redden as you felt outed? Did you feel vindicated because you're not the only one? Did you cringe as you pictured your friends talking to you while taking care of business?

My friends who have gone to the loo while talking to me fall into two categories: those who try to act like they're not and those who just openly do it. I'm not sure which I prefer. Generally, I find that I know what they're doing even if they don't acknowledge it. I'm a reporter, after all, trained to listen for the slighted aberration from normalcy in a phone conversation. So a sudden echo signals a move to a small, enclosed space. A steady stream of faucet water makes me suspicious of what it might be covering up. A small trickle, even when covered up with conversation, is pretty clearly what it sounds like. And let's not even get into the other sounds that could, ah, erupt. Another giveaway is the mute button. When all background ambient noise ceases momentarily, and the person pretends to carry on an intermittent, normal conversation, I play along and ignore it. I think I almost prefer when my friends just say, "It's either this or I'll have to call you back."

Have I done the talk-in-the-loo routine? I plead the fifth. I'll just say that sometimes an hour-long conversation, or an ill-timed 10-minute chat, is tough to break away from, because, I don't know about you, but some of my friends are talk-to-em-now-or-it'll-be-another-month type of people. Or, the conversation is, for whatever reason, enthralling, or they're pouring their heart out to you and it is unthinkable to interrupt them and say, "Gotta go, sorry."

But...I take my phone into the bathroom with me when I'm drying my hair, taking a shower, cleaning the sink, creaming my face, putting on my mascara and a myriad of other things. I'm sure that's the kind of thing they meant when they said people use their mobile phone in the bathroom. Aren't you?

Semper Fi

This is Veterans Day weekend. I don't normally pay much attention to it, I admit. It's inconvenient because the banks and post office and government offices are closed an extra day. It's good because most of the retail stores have sales. Otherwise life goes on.

But maybe I'm getting more patriotic or sentimental or both in my old age. This year I'm actually thinking about the men and women in the military who are sacrificing their time with families, their arms or legs, or their lives for their country. Our country. My country.

I hate the wars that President Bush has gotten us into. Yes, more than one. Philosophical wars as well as physical wars. But, like most Americans, I "support our troops," whatever that means. Since I don't personally know anyone who's in Iraq or Afghanistan, supporting our troops isn't all that real to me on a daily basis.

But a few months ago I met several amputees at Walter Reed Army Medical Center when I was writing a story about their new Amputee Training Center. They stuck with me. Their sacrifices. Their moment-by-moment challenges as they struggle to do what most of us take for granted every day. And most of all their attitudes, filled with optimism and humor.

Even with that wake-up call, I still didn't think much about this Veterans Day...until this morning when I got an e-mail from GoDaddy.com. You know, the folks with the racy, sexist tv commercials that ran in the last couple of Super Bowls. Well, I have a couple of domain names registered through them and they send me e-mails about their programs and discounts fairly frequently. I don't open most of them. But I opened this one. Subject was "USMC 232nd Birthday Salute." Hmmmm, I got curious. What I saw was what you see here. I clicked on the Marine Corps logo and it took me to this page.

You've got to watch it. It's a tribute to the Marine Corps (GoDaddy.com CEO Bob Parsons is an ex-Marine and Viet Nam War veteran) and it's so well done. We -- okay, I -- forget that so many troops from so many wars for so many years have fought for our freedom. And even though I think we're not nearly as free now as we were on Sept. 10, 2001, we do have so much to fight for. Just watching the pictures flash by from the wars beginning with WWI on to now and then the movie (wait for it -- it's worth it)...well, how can you not be moved? And grateful.

"The Bancrofts" Would Give "Brothers and Sisters" a Run for their Money

ABC's Sunday night prime time hit "Brothers and Sisters" is filled with intrigue, betrayal, loyalty, jealousy and,of course, love. Ah, family! Well, a prime time soap about the real-life Bancroft family would be far more juicy, I think, if the e-mails among them are any clue.

Who the hell is the Bancroft family? They held the single largest block of stock in Dow Jones & Co., whose most prestigious asset is the Wall Street Journal, until they decided to sell it to Rupert Murdoch's News Corp. Under the terms of the "merger" -- aka acquisition -- the Bancrofts had the privilege of naming one of their family or someone designated by their family to represent them on the News Corp. Board.

Somehow the Wall Street Journal got a hold of the e-mails the members of the Bancroft family sent to each other and posted them on the wsj.com Web site. You can see them all for free here if you register for the free Congoo NetPass. The e-mails made me laugh out loud several times.

The bottom line is that the family had many weeks to decide who to put on the board but could never make a decision. (Can you relate?) They didn't even have a family vote until after the deadline. So Rupert's organization decided for them.

In the e-mails the family debated who should be named. They suggested a couple of outsiders -- to their credit, exemplary journalists. Three family members nominated themselves and tried to make a case for their selection. They were eloquent, except for the one who was ultimately chosen, who was refreshingly blunt and direct. Some emphasized the importance of selecting someone who would maintain the high quality of journalism for which the Journal is famous. Ironic, since the family voted to sell it to Rupert Murdoch's organization, which struck fear, terror and dread into the hearts of true journalists around the world, certainly including those at the Journal. Do I know that for sure? Of course not. But how could it be any other way?

Some of my favorite highlights from the e-mails:

July 27, Natalie Bancroft: "I adore many of you...."
(but not all, clearly)

July 27, Natalie Bancroft: "I am not for the selling because I believe the buyer is definately not the right person to own this paper, but on the other hand, as protective as we are, and with much of the false pride many of us have, do we deserve to own this paper any longer? We are the stewards, but our stewardship has been laclustre in many aspects to say the least."
(Misspellings are hers.)
(This is great, because she's the one who ultimately ended up being chosen, by Murdoch, not by her family.)

Sept. 20, Christopher Bancroft: "Our family's concerns about journalistic integrity are clearly indicated by our willingness to sell Dow Jones to News Corp."
(Touche!)

Sept. 20, Tom Hill: "At this rate I'm confident we'll have a nominee by the end of the year. I'm just not sure which year."
(I like this guy!)

Sept. 20, Crawford Hill: "This entire, sad and pathetic, final episode is a fiasco. No wonder we lost Dow Jones!!"
(He probably subscribes to this: "Friends are God's apology for family.")

Sept. 21, Natalie Bancroft: "This may sound far fetched to you, but...I would like to say that I am interested in the board seat. I know that I may be one of the least appealing choices due to my age...."
(She's 27, studies opera, is fluent in French, lives in London. For more on her, read this.)

Sept. 25, Elizabeth Steele and Michael Elefante: "We have heard from a substantial number of you.... Mike Hill received a large majority of the votes.... We will communicate the results to News Corp. and will let you know what we hear back."

Nov. 5, Elizabeth Steele and Michael Elefante: "We learned today that News Corp. intends to nominate Natalie Bancroft to its Board and to propose her name to the Special Committee for its approval. While News Corp. is aware that other members of the family received more support from within the family, News Corp. has interviewed Natalie and elected to nominate her. We trust that Natalie will endeavor to represent effectively the family's interests on the News Corp. Board."
(At least they were gracious about it, sort of.)

Remember, those were the words that made it to semi-public e-mails. Imagine what the behind-closed-doors conversations were like. If this family gets together for Thanksgiving, that would be an interesting family dinner.

Where Have All the Outlets Gone?

Have you tried to find an electrical outlet in a hotel room lately? Available, reachable outlets are as rare as a Red Sox jersey at Yankee Stadium. That's true even in recently renovated rooms, unfortunately. What are hoteliers thinking? Clearly they're not. Travelers these days want to plug in, log on, tune in and chime in, even when they're traveling on a so-called pleasure trip. So make it easy for us, already!

I admit it: I'm a laptop addict. I don't have a BlackBerry or a Treo. Probably will within a few months but even when I get one, my laptop has abilities that BlackBerries/Treos don't. Laptops hold a LOT of information. Laptops allow for full-size viewing. Laptops let you download, view, change and update information on documents you need to view BIG, such as PowerPoint, Excel and many Word docs. On a recent trip, a friend with a BlackBerry e-mailed an Excel doc to me. He needed to see it and edit it for a meeting the next morning. I downloaded it onto my laptop, he made changes for an hour, and I e-mailed it back to him. The point is, laptops aren't going away any time soon, even with the smaller devices. So make it easy for us to use them in your hotel rooms!

The gyrations I have had to go through to plug in my laptop would be laughable if they weren't so annoying. I've twisted around like a giant pretzel or crawled along the floor like a bug, or both, reaching behind, under and sometimes through desks, beds and other furniture. I've moved desks, nightstands, couches, heavy chairs and giant lamps to get to an outlet. That's not customer-friendly!

And try finding one in a hotel room anywhere near the bed. I have a wireless broadband card (wouldn't leave home without it) so I can be on the Web while sitting on the bed with my feet up and a bunch of pillows behind my back, usually while watching tv. As I write this, I am on a trip and am plugged in to an outlet at the desk, while listening to "The View" on tv. I can't watch it because the tv doesn't swivel around enough to be viewed when I'm at the desk. That's the case in many hotel rooms. Of course, I could work with my battery but most times I work longer than my battery's capability. The outlets by the beds are unreachable and unavailable. One's behind the bed in the middle where I can't reach it (as most are, especially if the bed is king-sized). Another is behind one nightstand but those two outlets are already taken up by the lamp and the clock. Along the walls there are none. There never are. I think the game is, how many walls can we put into a hotel room with no outlets. I see this over and over in all brands and levels of hotels. Aggravating!

Here at the desk, there are four unused outlets, two on the wall and two on the lamp. That's a good start. But we need them also by the beds so we can easily reach to answer our cell phone while it's recharging, and preferably both of us can if there are two of us. We need to be comfortable while working on our laptops, even if we're not on the Web. Both of us at the same time! I have an extra long power cord (which I guard with my life) so I can sometimes find a plug close enough so it'll barely stretch, but then someone else or I risk tripping over it.

So help us out, hoteliers! Even if you can't give us the outlets we need where we need them, give us the option of power strips that are long enough to accommodate our stuff. I've seen exactly one of those in my last 25 hotel stays. I take so many chargers and power cords with me on trips that I sometimes wonder how the airport screeners let me go through with all of the tangled cords in my carry-on. Why do they let me through? Because there are a lot of us who travel with five or more power cords for our various devices. So hoteliers, give us more places to plug them in!

Cut Off!

My cable television and high-speed Internet connection are both out. Must be a fairly wide and serious outage because it's been 4-1/2 hours since my cable tv got stuck on one sound, which I thought at the time was just an irritatingly bad musical group on "The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson." It was late anyway so I slammed off the tv, rolled over and went to sleep. But shortly before 6:00 a.m. I turned on the tv again to see what had happened in the world in the last few hours and got a black screen.

That woke me up!

I tried my kitchen tv. Got the "Early Today" full-screen logo on that tv.

Comcast's local customer service phone line is by turns saying "All circuits are busy" and "Due to a high volume of calls, we are unable to connect your call at this time; please call back later." So they definitely know there's a problem.

So how am I connecting to the Web? Good old Verizon broadband card. I believe in back-ups.

God, it's quiet. I'm used to tv aiding my insomnia. I usually have early-morning tv's going in my bedroom and the kitchen before the sun comes up. I pad back and forth between the maybe-something-in-the-refrigerator-will-help-me-get-back-to-sleep and the let's-try-the-bed-one-more-time. The chatter of the too-bright-and-feaux-witty tv personalities usually distract and calm my racing mind and allow me to get a few more winks before my day has to begin. Insomnia is such fun -- I can tell you what's on every major tv channel between midnight and 6:00 a.m.

Ah, better. I just went to the Web site of my favorite local country music station, WPOC 93.1 in Baltimore, and am listening live. Ugh -- Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" greeted me first. I prefer the new country in the morning, not the stuff from three decades ago. So at least I know that the world is pretty much as it was last night.

Well, eventually they'll get the cable fixed. Until then, I feel kind of disrupted. I hate being cut off. Even if it's bad news, if something's happening, I want to know.

Neoteny -- The Excitement of Newness

I rarely think back on the times when I first was in the business world and wasn't of sufficient stature to go to industry trade group events or have my company pay for membership in them. I paid for them myself, they were so important to me, despite the fact that I was making peanuts. I was a little networker even back then. I was excited to go to those lunches and dinners then, an enthusiasm I didn't always have later as they became more obligatory. In fact, I downright dreaded some of them, the very same types of events I was so pumped to attend when the business world was so new to me.

This came to mind this morning when my good professional friend, longtime construction professional Bob Nilsson, sent me a note about the Urban Land Institute (ULI) in Orlando, Florida, inviting to their meetings an inspiring young man, Jason Scott, an Iraq war vet who ended up an amputee at Walter Reed, where you can find Bob two or three days a week, talking to the amputees and their families, making things happen and solving problems behind the scenes. Jason, a Chicago boy who's now enrolled in the MBA program at the University of Florida, is the first recipient of the ULI Second Chance Scholarship founded by Nilsson, an impressive scholarship that pays the difference between what the GI Bill pays for and what the real expenses are as amputee vets go to school. The idea is to encourage these kids (though Jason is now 31, so he's not a kid anymore) (but to me at this point, geez, nearly everybody is a kid) to go into real estate or construction as a career. However, there is no requirement that the recipients commit to any specific career. But if paying for one's expenses isn't encouragement to go into the career where the stipend comes from, I don't know what is. (You can read my story about this in Engineering News-Record [ENR]. Unfortunately, it'll cost you $4.95 unless you're an ENR subscriber.)

So Bob's note brought to mind the whole idea of the excitement of newness. I think that's what ADD is all about, not landing anywhere too long, even mentally.

I remember once when a married professional friend of mine, a loving and faithful husband, had a few too many drinks and propositioned me. I was astonished. I said to him, "We're friends and you are crazy about your wife. Why would you ask me that?" He said, "Because I trust you, I know I'm safe with you, and I just want someone who isn't my wife." I said no, by the way. I was only married once, for all of two years, and I've never, ever experienced that kind of boredom with a partner, but I wonder how longtime married couples keep the excitement in their marriages...or if they just kind of give up on that.

It's tough to keep an attitude of neoteny about life, especially the more mundane or repetitive aspects. Merriam-Webster defines neoteny as "retention of some larval or immature characters in adulthood." But I use it as a consultant for Disney I knew years ago used the term. He defined it as a childlike attitude of wonder and excitement about life.

There aren't a lot of little kids in my life, but occasionally I get to see the world through their eyes as everything is new to them. When I lived in Manhattan, one day I was riding the subway. It was cheek-to-cheek packed, and it was bumpy as the fast-moving express train tore through the tunnel. I was one of the dozens standing, as all of the seats were taken. We were all swaying and jerking as we rode, hanging on tightly to the metal straps or the poles as we rode. The car was quiet, a phenomenon that often happens in New York commuter trains and subway cars, even when they are full. I was just thinking about how uncomfortable this ride was, how I hated having to stand again and how hard it was to stay upright and dignified...when suddenly a little girl holding on to the same pole looked up at her mother and exclaimed excitedly, "Mommy, isn't this fun!?" The mood in the whole car changed from dour and barely tolerant to happy, chatty and light.

The other night, late, the power went off on our block. The lights went out, the tv went dark, the refrigerator went quiet, the neighborhood went still. How long would it last? I wondered. Would my frozen food melt, my milk go warm? Would vandalism start? (Hey, it was late and dark!) In about 15 minutes, everything came back on and guess what wasn't so old-hat anymore. I even had a related burst of appreciation for running water. Ha! But even a day later, I didn't give water or power another thought.

It's all in how you look at it. It's so easy to let things get old for us, including things that used to thrill us. Those are usually the things that, if they were taken away from us, we'd roll over our grandmothers to get back.

Rather Sticky: Dan Rather Sues CBS in the Interest of "Freedom of the Press"

Longtime news anchor Dan Rather is suing CBS for $70 million, alleging he was forced to step down as the network succombed to outside pressure after a "60 Minutes" story ran in 2004 questioning President Bush's service record. Rather said in an interview with Larry King on CNN, "You can't have freedom of the press if you're going to have large, big corporations and big government intruding and intimidating in newsrooms. The chilling effect on investigative reporting is going to be something we don't want to see."

Good for him!!

I've been a journalist since 1984, working either freelance or on staff for a daily newspaper, a monthly general-interest magazine, two monthly business magazines, a weekly business newspaper, three weekly trade magazines and two business Web sites. I can attest that there can be a nasty level of pressure and sometimes downright interference from corporations, politicians, unions, associations and other organizations to not make them look bad.

Some examples, some of which involved me, some of which involved colleagues:

* One publisher pulled a cover photo right before it went to press because the cover photo included a prop that happened to be a brand that competed with a major advertiser.

* Many more than one editor has called a reporter on the carpet for not including a major advertiser in a round-up article, or for writing something that made a major advertiser look bad. In one case, the reporter deliberately did not include what was said about that advertiser because all comments were negative and he didn't think they were particularly justified, but the editor, even after hearing that, lambasted him anyway.

* I once wrote a story about a company that had done illegal things, gotten kicked off of a government project and banned from doing business with that government entity. The CEO deliberately lied to me -- I asked certain questions every conceivable way, knowing the answer, and he denied, denied, denied -- but I had all of my facts confirmed from the right sources. He said to me, "You're going to hurt my business if you write about this!" I told him I was reporting on what had happened on a government contract, which was public information. After the story ran, the CEO called my editor and complained and, unbeknownst to me, got my editor to agree not to have me cover his company after that.

Probably a year and a half later, that CEO and I were at the same conference, went into the bar at the hotel where the conference was, I let him vent, I told him my side of things, we hugged and made up and we've been pals ever since. (His business is now thriving, by the way.) He's the one who told me that he'd asked my editor to take me off of covering his company, which my editor had subtly done. I thought that was pretty skeevy on the part of my editor, who usually stood up for his reporters. So much for taking a stand for the truth.

Should subjects be able to dictate who in the media covers them? No way! Barry Manilow was scheduled to appear on "The View" last week, but requested that anyone but co-host Elisabeth Hasselbeck interview him. "View" producers refused and Manilow did not appear. Whether it was his idea to cancel or theirs, I like the idea that someone couldn't dictate who interviewed him. (And I do like Barry Manilow.)

And don't even get me started on news organizations paying sources for interviews, a la Paris Hilton recently when she got out of jail. I was delighted when the sordid pay-to-play offer that NBC allegedly made to Hilton came to light, which an embarrassed NBC denied...sort of. ABC also supposedly made an offer but both networks ended up passing, no doubt to try to salvage their reputations, as it's a huge, HUGE no-no for legitimate news organizations to pay for interviews. No doubt that's eroding too. It's coming out that "certain fees" are negotiated at times to pay for certain expenses the subjects may incur. Geez.

On the positive side, one of my editors wrote a rather critical cover story about our biggest advertiser, knowing that their annual advertising contract was up for renewal the next month. To their credit, the advertiser renewed.

It's not unusual for publications to give positive coverage to major advertisers. I've always been lucky to work for pubs that subscribed to the philosophy that there should be a rigid line between church and state. But advertisers sometimes end up getting positive press because the sales person talks with the company, hears something interesting and passes it along to a reporter. Pressure from sales people usually hasn't netted anything but a little slap on the hand of the sales person. Most understand that it's the independence of the reporters that gives legitimacy to whatever positive press a company gets.

Every corporation has its politics. Every news organization has to weigh the risks and rewards of every story. The best illustration of this was well documented in the true-story movie The Insider, starring Al Pacino and Russell Crowe. It's about what (ironically) CBS went through when "60 Minutes" went after the tobacco industry for lying about cigarettes not being addictive via an interview with a research chemist whistleblower. Terrific movie! Really shows, fairly realistically, in my view, the passion, the angst and the behind-the-scenes discussions, arguments and blow-ups when corporate politics are involved.

Most corporations get away with their politics inside the organization. It's just the way they do business. Most don't consider that they even play politics, which ihs a political play itself. The fact that Dan Rather, a truly credible newsman, is bringing CBS's corporate politics into light, whether he wins or loses, is already a big win for journalism. And God knows, in this day of eroding freedom of the press, we can use all the help we can get.

Old Cars, Old Shoes, Old Friends

I have a great car, a 2003 Nissan Altima that's loaded with absolutely everything. I had to play the Bose sound system at high volume to make sure it was truly awesome before I'd even consider test driving the car. It was. I did. I bought it.

But even as wonderful as it is, as cushy and smooth and well equipped as it is, I'm not in love with it. I appreciate it but don't feel an emotional attachment.

It's like a rock-hard, very manly-handsome guy I went out with a hundred years ago. He looked great on the outside, my friends would have thought I was so lucky, and I *should* have been wild about him, but I didn't feel any chemistry. I only went out with him once.

The two cars I've owned that I loved wholeheartedly were both red but otherwise very different from each other. My 1980 Nissan 280ZX was fabulous. Power, looks, handling, luxury -- I felt like I was driving a cloud. I loved that car every moment I owned it.

And my 1993 Dodge Intrepid with rich-looking gold-edged wheel covers I loved also, even though it didn't have a sun or moon roof or a Star-Wars-looking interior dash set-up or an impressive sound system. But I loved the look and the feel and, most of all, the memories that went with the car. My dad and I picked it out together -- for him -- just a few months before he died. A few years later, after my mom had put all of maybe 2,000 miles on it, I got the car and loved it every moment I had it until I sold it about a year and a half ago. I passed up the opportunity to sell it to a neighbor who had 2 little kids who trashed and threw up in their car -- I couldn't do that to my Intrepid. I kept it way longer than I'd ever kept any other car because I felt it held a little piece of my dad and I didn't want to give it up. But I couldn't stand to see it deterioriate either so I sold it when it was still looking good and performing well. It was a good find for the guy who bought it. He passed muster with me so I let him buy it.

Both cars I had an affinity with, a chemistry. And we made memories together. We survived things. I was married when I owned the Z, and my husband and I zipped around town in our Zs -- he bought one shortly after I bought mine. One day he tried to run me in my Z off the road with his Z. Imagine what that phone call to our insurance agent would have been like. Not long after that, amazingly enough, I moved out. But I have good memories of us, too, earlier, with our almost-matching Zs.

As for shoes, if I like a shoe, I'll buy it in a couple of colors and I'll buy spares. I hate it when they discontinue a style I have adopted as mine. If I have enough back-ups, I'll wear them long after they're no longer available to buy. Okay, so I'm not a fashion trendsetter. But I bond with my shoes. I'd never be like the women who have 300 pairs of shoes...unless it was 30 pairs each of 10 styles.

And then there are friends. I haven't lived in Maryland very long and I didn't know anyone when I moved here. Slowly I'm meeting people. We're all friendly, cordial and happy to see each other. We laugh, we trade stories, we banter, we empathize and we sympathize. But we're still polite with each other. Not very real with each other.

I miss my old friends. The ones who call me on my bullshit and I call them on theirs. The ones who roll their eyes and know that I'm not like that, or that I am. The ones with whom I have history -- it only takes one look and we remember whole long, complicated stories about each other. The ones who know my foibles and love me anyway. The ones who've grown so fond of me that by now they see only a tiny fine line between my strengths and my weaknesses. The ones I can call in the middle of the night if I need to, and they me, even though we rarely do. The ones I'd want near me if anything bad happened to someone I love. The ones who know me, who fit me like my favorite shoes and thrill me -- every time we talk -- like the first time I drove my Z.

Eventually I'll have history with friends here. They'll fit like my well-worn Ecco sandals that I kick and scream at the thought of not wearing as fall arrives. They'll understand my passions, my quirks, my resistances, my moods, my dreams. They'll know the characters, past and present, in my life. And they'll become one of them, two of them, hopefully more. We'll have that rare and beautiful friend-shorthand that only comes with time. Even in this MTV-fast, quick-cut, instant-gratification world...some things still take time.

Broncos and Raiders -- Surprise!!

Living on the East Coast, I rarely get to see the Denver Broncos' games. Including today, when their longtime rival, their nastiest rival, the dastardly Oakland Raiders, came to visit.

So at the beginning of the preseason, I signed up, as I have before, for the NFL Field Pass, which allows me to listen to any NFL game's radio broadcast during a game. Then I can hear what's going on while "watching" the action on the NFL.com site. Unfortunately, it's not streaming video or any video at all. It's a largely dead Web page that refreshes itself every few seconds with the new score, new time and a little field with lines for the lines of scrimmage and where they need to get to for the first down. The only animation, which is a generous term in this case, is when little green dotted lines move down the field to signify a kick. Pretty lame for a bigtime site for such an action-oriented sport.

So that's how I experienced today's Broncos-Raiders debacle. The Raiders have been playing dismally, the Broncos well, and it should've been a slam-dunk (to borrow a basketball metaphor) for the Broncs. The first half was great for Bronco fans -- Broncos dominated (as they should) and the half ended with Broncos 17, Raiders 3. I heard the live radio feed from the Denver Broncos Network and watched the little field on NFL.com.

The second half was a blazing disaster for both teams. Broncos and Raiders alike just kept messing things up. But the Broncos seemed to fall apart and the Raiders caught up, helped in part by the Broncos spotting them two points, via a truly unnecessary safety. Suddenly it was 20-20 and the game went into overtime.

Then a miracle. Two, actually. The first was that right after the Ravens-Jets game ended (Ravens actually won! 20-13), CBS went to Denver and showed the entire overtime. Wow! (Glad I was multi-sporting and had the Ravens game on tv as I kept up with the Bronco game.)

I called my mom and her significant other, Lloyd, a former Raiders fan that we've "persuaded" to become a Bronco fan. They're in Phoenix, where they didn't get the Bronco game either. But there, who knows why, CBS did not air the overtime. So I kept Lloyd on the phone while I gave him my own play-by-play as I watched the live game. Involuntarily I punctuated it with groans, light profanity, squeals and, ultimately, cheers, as at first it looked like the Raiders had won with a Janikowski field goal....But the Broncos had called time out just before (JUST before) the snap, so it was deemed a practice kick. He had to do it all over again and this time it went wide right. That was the second miracle. The highly motivated Broncos jammed the ball down the field and gave superkicker Jason Elam an easy field goal for the true overtime win of 23-20.

The recap video of this incredibly twisty-turny game isn't nearly as much fun to watch as it would've been to see live. But I can't have DirectTV where I live now to see the NFL games so I have to settle for whatever CBS, Fox, ESPN or NBC give me. The NFL Field Pass is a pretty poor workaround for Bronco fans who can't see the games. But I'll take what I can get. And thanks to my local CBS station for airing the overtime part of today's game!

Meeting the Creators of Dismas Hardy and Little Miss Sunshine

Highlights of the Maui Writers Conference, was when we were royally entertained by author John Lescroart (pictured here), screenwriter Michael Arndt, and authors Scott Turow, whose books I've always loved as much for the beautiful writing as much as the plot, and author Buzz Bissinger.

Lescroart (pronounced "Le-SQUAW") is the writer of the best-selling series often featuring lawyer and smart figure-outer Dismas Hardy, his friend the gruff and crusty Detective Abe Glitsky and now a new character, private investigator and former foster child Wyatt Hunt. (They all have "issues.") I was already reading Lescroart's newest paperback, The Hunt Club (Wyatt Hunt's debut), when I left for the conference so I brought it with me, not realizing that Lescroart would be here, let alone a keynote speaker. Next time I may actually read the brochure before I come to the conference.

Arndt is the creator and screenwriter of the raw but hilarious movie Little Miss Sunshine, for which he won an Academy Award this year. I first saw it on an airplane, loved it, and rented it for my mom and her significant other. Mom hated it because of the incessant profanity, which had all been edited out for the airplane version. I still loved the quirky little flick.

Both writers told their stories, what they did when they were waiting to hit it big, what they were thinking at various stages, etc. Lescroart quit his day job many times, and he had many, many day jobs. Arndt only quit his day job twice, the same one twice, in fact, that of being a personal assistant to actor Matthew Broderick. Both talks were just so inspiring. Writers love hearing first-hand stories of writers who have made it. Lescroart was impressive not only for his writing but also for his humility. He kept quoting Arndt in his session the next day on "Six Steps to a Best Seller," which was definitely another highlight. I even bought the CD of that. I loved his steps on "genius mode" and "idiot mode."

Buzz Bissinger is a former journalist, or a current journalist, for all I know -- a journalist, is the point. I haven't read Friday Night Lights, which is a true story, but I love the tv series, which is not. But to tell an author that is like what one public relations person told me a few years ago when she saw a story I'd written about one of her clients that had some very rich photos with it that our photographer had taken: "Ooooooh, it's great!" I said, "But you haven't read it yet." She said, "Oh, no one reads the words anyway."

Scott Turow is a working lawyer and a successful author. Wow. And a nice guy too. During his book signing, his line moved super slowly because he took the time to talk to each person pretty much as long as they liked. I wanted to kick them in the ass, but he was gracious. Admirable.

Fraternizing with fellow writers was such a treat. It's one time when I don't have to explain myself or apologize for my bookworm side. The trick is keeping the magic in mind when we're all back in our real lives.

I did make it to the ocean, but only once. And that was time well spent -- the time at the conference, that is.

Maui: Paradise, But Not for the Reason You Think

I arrived yesterday afternoon in Maui. Paradise. Not because of the ocean, which I haven't been to yet, even though it's mere steps away from my hotel room. Not because of the view, which is spectacular. Not because of the succulent fruit and fresh fish, which are delicious. Why, then?

Because I'm with others of my ilk! I'm at the Maui Writers Conference (MWC), one of the few places I ever go where I don't feel like a freak for taking a book with me everywhere I go, or packing two mysteries, the one I'm currently reading and a spare in case I finish it before I head back, even though I know I'll buy a couple more in the MWC bookstore because I'll hear an author I like and can't resist buying one of his or her books.

One year, Catherine Coulter was a speaker. I'd never read any of her books. She was a history major and she writes very well-researched historical romance novels, and, at the opposite end of the spectrum, current-day FBI thrillers. She was funny and warm. She said she wrote one book in first person as a man but she won't do that again. "He had a problem and got frustrated and I had him eating chocolate and calling a friend and my husband said, 'No, no no!,'" she said. Her seminar on writing sex scenes had all of us rolling on the floor (with laughter, not acting out the scenes). I ran into her in the bookstore, told her how much I'd enjoyed her but that I wasn't a romance novel reader. She suggested that I read her FBI series -- I've since read every one -- and she picked up two of her romance novels and said I should read them too, because one was funny and the other was....well, I can't remember why she said to read that one, but I did read those two and she was right. I took back an armload of her books, fortunately all in paperback.

Today I went to lunch at our hotel out by the pool and nearly every table was occupied by just one person, reading. The veranda also was occupied this afternoon by single souls scattered about, all reading. Even a couple weren't talking but were reading, side by side. My kind of book nerds!

The conference officially starts tomorrow but most of us come early to snag 10-minute consultations (at $40 apiece) with noted agents and editors, which is quite a process in itself. The conference creators have refined the procedures over the 15 years that the conference has been going on, so it's pretty painless now, compared with the first time I attended several years ago when we stood in line for what seemed like a long, tedious time.

This evening I just happened to bumble into the area where the authors and presenters were gathering for a group photo. I stuck around and chatted up the photographer. A few minutes later, they descended in a swarm, smiled pretty for the camera and disbanded, all within about five minutes. I saw John Saul, always a conference favorite, talking with John Lescroart, one of the featured speakers, one of whose books I'm reading now, coincidentally, and brought with me. I didn't even realize Lescroart would be here. Very cool! Maybe I'll have him sign his book that I'm reading. And one of my goals is to find out how to pronounce his last name.

The time difference between Maui and Maryland is six hours. It's 9:00 p.m. local time, which is 3:00 a.m. body time, as I call it. I'm going to bed now (those of you who know me must be quite shocked) so I can plunge in to the big doings tomorrow revived and refreshed.

I may or may not make it to the ocean. Stay tuned.

Cougars vs. Kittens: A Meow-Fest

I'm not proud of this. I am watching NBC's summer reality frolic "Age of Love." It pits women in their 20s -- aka "kittens" -- against women in their 40s -- aka "cougars" -- as they all compete for the affections of Australian tennis star (and hunk, if you like that type) Mark Philippoussis, who's 31. The goal is a long-term relationship, possibly a marriage proposal. (Notice I said marriage proposal, not marriage.)

Oh brother!

I watched the very first episode a few weeks ago and I spent much of the hour shaking my head. Dumb, dumb, dumb. A total waste of time. Don't encourage them by boosting the ratings. Etc. But what the heck, it's summer! It's supposed to be fun. So now if I miss an episode on a Monday night, I stream the video on nbc.com. My only objection to the way NBC.com does that is that they play the very same commercial on every break! Geez, at least have different commercials for the same product. It's a waste to beat us over the head with the same one four times in the hour, no matter how good it is.

They started out with six cougars and six kittens. As of the end of tonight's episode, there are two left of each, kittens and cougars. I think they're all about as selfish, self-centered and immature as high school girls. They're all in it for themselves. They could care less whether they're right for the guy or he's right for them. They are competitive, bitchy and jealous. They just want to win whatever the prize is, and it's Mark.

The girls are great specimens of the best of their age groups. Flat stomachs, no discernable cellulite, smooth faces, bright teeth. But the backbiting is rampant. I think it's sad. I think the whole thing, the whole premise is shallow, counterproductive and demeaning not only to the participants but to the whole concept of real love. There's just no real love when a guy is dating 12 women, or, now, 4 women. He's been kissing and caressing all of them since there were 8. Even at the end, there will be 2. So Mark will be deep-kissing and running the bases (no proof but c'mon!) with both of the finalists until the moment he sends one of them home and then turns to the winner and says, "I love you" or "Will you marry me?" or "I'm serious about you."

Mark seems like a nice guy: considerate, sincere and well-meaning. He gets rid of anyone he perceives as playing games or backstabbing one of the other gals. Good for him! But Mark, you poor sweet sap, some of the women (two in particular) are running their manipulative games on you and you are falling for them. Being good at playing the guy game is not the same as being a good partner.

It's the meowing and manipulating, pouting and crying, and kissing and stroking that make for good television. Mary, the kitten who was sent home last week, was the best. She cried and wailed through most of the last two or three episodes and then walked away basically saying, "Well, at least I have my dignity." Gotta love it.

So why do I watch? I semi-secretly enjoy one guilty reality TV pleasure at a time. One summer it was "Big Brother." Didn't go back. This past fall it was "The Amazing Race," which was probably the best of the reality shows. The funniest was "My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance." I never got into "American Idol." Loved "Dancing with the Stars" once I started watching it. "America's Got Talent" is hilarious and touching.

I could be watching PBS or the History Channel or reading a book or learning the piano or Spanish. Yeah, well...maybe tomorrow. Meanwhile, if I could write the ending of "Age of Love," I'd have the Australian tennis star pick a cougar, with both of them knowing they'd end up good friends, and then after the show's over, he could go out into the real world and find a real, genuine love. I'd make a lousy TV program manager, wouldn't I?

IRL vs. NASCAR -- Give Me NASCAR!!

A wonderful friend of mine had an extra ticket for the Sun Trust Indy Challenge at Richmond (VA) International Raceway a couple of weeks ago and asked if I'd like to go. She'd pay for the ticket if I'd drive since she doesn't have or need a car as a Georgetown resident. Good deal for both of us.

Now I'm a NASCAR fan, have been since way before NASCAR was cool. It wasn't easy being a NASCAR fan when I lived in New York City, where the few folks who knew what NASCAR was would look at me like I'd just drunk out of the finger bowl. But that didn't bother me. I wore my red and black Dale Earnhardt (Sr.) windbreaker with pride, right out there on the streets of Manhattan. Nobody ever beat me up and a few would high-five me, even if just with their eyes. Out-of-towners, no doubt.

I don't even follow the Indy Racing League (IRL), never have. Though I did study up for this race by watching the Indy race the week before on TV. Who knows why, but the stock car races have always sucked me in, whereas the how-can-you-watch-those-cars-just-go-round-and-round attitude that people have who don't "get" NASCAR is pretty much the one I have for IRL. Yes, the Indy cars go faster and are sleeker. The many non-American drivers are sexy and suave. IRL has women drivers, the most famous of whom is Danica Patrick, all 100 pounds of her, though don't discount Sarah Fisher. And NASCAR doesn't have a driver's spouse equivalent to Ashley Judd, wife of IRL star Dario Franchitti.

But I don't care. I love the diversity of NASCAR fans. (Too bad the diversity doesn't extend to the drivers. How many NASCAR drivers or even crew members of color have you seen? And women? Not in Nextel Cup racing, yet, though a couple have slipped in from time to time in the Busch series.) I love the 42ish-driver field in each race. I love the long races, the longest of which is the Coca-Cola 600, which takes place in Charlotte, N.C., every Memorial Day weekend. The Indy race in Richmond was 250 miles, just a warm-up for NASCAR races, and had all of, I think, 12 drivers starting out and took only a little more time than it took my friend and me to wait and creep through the traffic getting out of the parking lot and crawl toward our hotel just a few miles away.

I love the strategy employed by NASCAR drivers. (Yes, strategy, you non-NASCAR fans who taunt us with, "Strategy? Turn left, turn left, turn left, turn left!") I saw a little of it in the Indy race too, but, unfortunately, it didn't appear to last long. The same roster of five leaders was frozen in place for the last half of the race. And there were no crashes. Neither would ever happen in NASCAR. The lead usually changes upward of a dozen times in each race. The last five laps in NASCAR are certainly when I sit glued to the TV when I'm watching a race on Sundays (or, less fun, on Saturday nights).

This isn't to trash IRL. As a racing car fan who has dealt with my share of NASCAR detractors over the years -- I view them as ignorant, not evil -- I don't want to demean IRL or their drivers or fans. I'm just ignorant about IRL.

The Richmond race was a wonderful experience. It was perfect weather, and day into night was beautiful. The novelty of a new racing venue was fun. My favorite driver, Mario Franchitti (what do I know?) won. The Star Spangled Banner live never fails to stir me. Being there with a friend was great -- I know more about NASCAR but she knew more about IRL so it was educational as well as entertaining. And, the thrill of all that speed never gets old.

I'm just sayin'....if I had my choice between going to an Indy race or a NASCAR race -- unless I was invited to an Indy owner's skybox -- you'd find me screaming myself hoarse at a NASCAR race.

Have My Chips Been Dipped Before?

A couple of days ago, I went to my favorite little neighborhood Mexican food restaurant for lunch. The chips and salsa are especially good there. The chips are crispy, strong enough for dipping, salty enough but not too, and actually tasty rather than cardboardy like some of them can be. The salsa is flavorful, relatively smooth (tomato chunks and onion slivers are the lazy version of salsa) and, thanks to those little devlish jalapeño pepper seeds, spicy-hot. I made the mistake of not waiting for the water before popping a dipped chip into my mouth and found myself coughing and sputtering like a gringo. A few minutes later, I heard someone at the table two behind me doing the same thing. Now that's salsa!

Normally I overindulge on the chips before the entree arrives, but this little place is so fast that I only got through a small handful of them before my queso chicken burrito landed in front of me.

So, since I had a nearly full bowl of chips and a nearly full container of salsa, and since (I believe) by law they can't serve chips and salsa that have been served and removed from a table to anyone else, after my meal I asked to take them with me.

"We don't usually do that," the manager (who was also my waiter that day) told me. I looked him like "You've gotta be kidding!" and he quickly said, "But if you want to...." I said I did and he got me a foam box for my chips and a mini-cup and top for my salsa. And I was happy.

But...I couldn't help but wonder why they "don't usually do that." It's not like I ordered a refill. If they serve them to customers in open bowls, surely they wouldn't bus the tables and dump the uneaten but pawed-over chips into the big bowl they scoop them from, or pour the uneaten but dipped-into (and maybe double-dipped-into) salsa into the vat they ladle it from. Would they? WOULD they???

I've seen many restaurants in the past pour remaining salad dressing from tables back into the big tub from which they fill the little individual plastic cups. Oooooh, gross!

Even though I don't have any hard evidence that my maybe formerly favorite Mexican food restaurant returns chips and/or salsa to the community bowl, I admit that I feel a little squeamish about returning there. Of course, that didn't stop me from eating the chips and salsa I doggie-bagged home. I figure there are a million little things like that going on every day in restaurants that we don't see. And don't want to. So I just look at it as keeping my immunity up!

Passing in the Night

My ex-husband was found dead this week and even though I hadn't seen him in probably 15 years, he's the only ex-husband I had so I thought it was worth commemorating. I'm just not sure how to do it.

A Yahoo! search of his name, Walter Choate Sweet, turns up nothing. "Walter Sweet" nets several listings -- a professor emeritus in geology at the University of Iowa, a painter born in 1889, a philanthropist in New York (sorry, took me awhile to stop laughing at the prospect of that being him) and an auto mechanic who went on to own that dealership who just died this week also -- none of them my ex. "Walt Sweet" on both Yahoo! and Google turns up a musician and designer of a keyless Irish flute, hardly my ex. He (my ex) wasn't particularly musical himself -- in fact his sense of rhythm was so off that it drove me crazy to dance with him -- though he did buy me a stunning Yamaha upright grand piano, which I still have. I keep it at my stable mom's house because if it had gone with me on all of my moves since I trekked east nearly 19 years ago, it would've been jostled and moved some nine times. Reminds me, I need to get it tuned again.

Well, at least the Walter Choate Sweet that I knew and loved at one time will be on the Web, even if it's just here. Actually, I need to do the same thing for my wonderful father, John Walter Schriener, whom everyone knew as Jack Schriener, who died in 1994. He wanted to be cremated, which we did, and although as a World War II veteran, he was eligible to be buried in one of the military cemeteries, there is no place to go to see his grave, no marker or tombstone to even let people know he existed. So I will do that at some point, just not here and now. This is for Walt, or at least about Walt.

Walt and I were married for just two years. It was incredibly tumultuous. We didn't even know if we'd make it to our first anniversary, let alone our second. In fact, we were not together on our second and our divorce was final later that month. He swore when we got divorced that he'd never be friends with me, but, fortunately, that didn't hold. He came to visit me after I moved to New York -- well, he was there anyway for something else and stopped by to visit me, let me buy him a pizza and put him up for the night (platonically, not that it matters). At that time, we looked at each other and both marveled that we couldn't imagine that we'd ever even really known each other, let alone been married. Time heals all, I guess -- by that time, we'd been divorced for eight or so years.

But let me talk about the good stuff. He was smart and always interesting -- one of the reasons I married him was that I knew I'd never be bored. He was affectionate and loving and took great care of me throughout our marriage. He was creative -- I still have (somewhere) a huge envelope of all of the inventive cards he gave me, most of which were originals. He had a sense of humor and wasn't afraid to look silly. I have a great picture of him in a lawn chair with his "horny hat" on, a maroon baseball cap with silver horns. He had great respect for skill and accomplishment, even if it was at his expense. He was a judo player, and in one tournament, his opponent felled him with a stunning move that prompted Walt to applaud him along with everyone else. I always admired that about him.

The saga of our divorce could fill a book. It was traumatic, as all divorces are, and about that I'll only relate one little story. He was the consummate list maker. We took our property division list to the one lawyer that we were going to share (bad idea! don't do it) and as the lawyer perused the list, he said, "I've never seen a swingtop wastebasket on a property settlement list." I said, "Wait til you get to the lightbulbs." True story.

The best thing about our marriage, it turns out, was his daughter, Carey, who was 12 when I met her and 15 when we got divorced. Thank God, she and I have kept in touch all these years and even though we don't talk or see each other all that often (we are on opposite coasts), every time we do, it's like we are finishing a sentence we started the day before. She used to tell people about us and the fact that I used to be married to her dad, "We dumped him and kept each other." It wasn't true, of course, but it made me feel great. I'll have to do a blog item on her too. She's been the true gift from my marriage to Walt.

The second best thing, believe it or not, is his first ex-wife, Sheila (pronounced "SHY-la"). Of course, we didn't start out being friendly, even though I came along awhile after they had separated. But before Walt and I got divorced, she and I had grown to be quite friendly, and then we got friendlier after the split (yes, somewhat hilariously at his expense). One of the highlights of a couple of my trips to Phoenix a year or two ago was having lunch and dinner with Carey and Sheila -- and, at one of them, also Carey's half-sister Elizabeth. So those are great gifts from a marriage gone bad.

See, I'm having trouble keeping to the subject of Walt. Well, for one thing, the "bad" stories about him are far more entertaining, incredible, amazing and, for some of them, far sadder than the good ones, but I really don't want to do that in a commemoration (I wouldn't call it a tribute, as such). He seemed to isolate himself and have a fair amount of fear or even paranoia, I'm told, in the last few years. So I'll just say that I hope he finds the peace in his passing that he didn't seem to be able to find on earth. And, for a variety of reasons, I'm grateful he was in my life.

Crime Columbia Style

In my new home town of Columbia, MD, in an effort to get to know the area, I read the free weekly paper the Columbia Flier. (Well, it says it's $1.00 newsstand price, but I've only seen it for free.) I read the ads and pretty much every page.

My favorite part of the paper is the Crime Log. There are usually several car thefts and a few break-ins, but there are some great small-town crimes that are priceless. My favorites of late:

"West Running Brook, 5100 block, between 6:30 a.m. and 3:15 p.m. May 16. Cigarettes, soup and cash stolen from residence after window pane pulled from front door." (Judy's note: SOUP?!)

"Basket Ring Road, 9600 block, 2:47 a.m. May 19. Resident heard knock at bedroom door and later heard front door close. He looked out the window and saw two males run toward Thunder Hill Road."

"Broken Land Parkway, 9800 block, 8:30 p.m. May 9. Female was walking along bike path when male exposed himself. Male then fled."

"Flowerstock Row and Tamar Drive, 1:15 a.m. May 10. Female and two friends were walking when a dark vehicle pulled over and an armed male got out and demanded cash. Walkers told the gunman they had nothing of value. Gunman got back into car and drove off."

Don'tcha love it? May all crimes be only as serious as these.

Convoluted Columbia

Columbia, Maryland, is a planned community patterned, I was told, after the Disney area layout in Florida. I think that's a bad idea.

I have always thought the area around Disney World is unnecessarily spread out, with confusingly winding roads and everything hidden, all in the interest of, what, aesthetics? Whose? I am a practical woman and I like to actually find the businesses I want. How silly of me.

In Columbia, to where I just moved, has all of these little hidden villages, nine of them. They have great names -- Wilde Lake, King's Contrivance, Long Reach, Dorsey's Search -- but just try to find a dry cleaner, a hair salon, a full-service car wash or even a gas station. Strike that last one, actually. Gas at the nearest stations to me in Columbia is at $3.159 and $3.189 per gallon. I buy my gas on my way home in the evening from my office in downtown Baltimore; I paid $3.059 yesterday to fill up. Still a gouge but better than near my house.

One night I made a wrong left turn very near to where I live and ended up in some housing area from which I thought I would never emerge. Seriously, every street wound around to some other street that wound around, but nothing led back out. I got so tangled up that I couldn't figure out how to get back to where I came in. My GPS told me to turn left where there was no road and took me round and round and round. Fortunately, I wasn't alone -- I do have a witness to this -- and at first we were laughing but after a good half hour of this, we got angry and not a little scared. Finally, who knows how, we emerged. Ridiculous!

Meanwhile, I still look for a dry cleaner. Verizon promised to send me phone books but after a month, they have yet to arrive. I tried punching in "Cleaners" to my GPS but good old Garmin has maps that are so out of date that literally half of the time I call up any business it has in its database, it's not there anymore. I've found everything from a whole housing development to a leveled, chained-off lot with the outline of buildings still there. The height of the weeds popping up through the cracked concrete indicates that the businesses have been gone awhile. Yet when I go to the garmin.com Web site and enter all of my access information, I get the message that my software is up to date. Helloooooo! Not exactly.

Despite the challenges, I found two dry cleaners today but don't like either one. I have yet to see a full-service car wash, only those inadequate drive-through jobs where your car dries on its own, usually with spots. No thanks. And my hair is desperately in need of a trim but I haven't spotted a hair salon either. Even a damn convenience store is hidden. Can you imagine hiding a convenience store, which depends on drop-ins for its very existence? The closest (and only that I've seen) 7-Eleven is so hidden that I only found it when my GPS told me where it was. It's so hidden that a woman clerk was murdered there about three weeks ago and nobody saw anything. Of course they didn't -- it's hidden! Very sad.

I live near the (apparently) famous Columbia Town Center, which is another name for a mall. I have yet to go there. It's monstrous, 230 stores. I'll probably tackle it today to at least find a hair salon.

Don't get me wrong. I love where I live. I have fabulous forest views from all of my windows -- though it can be disruptively loud, as the busy road 200 yards from me is the main route for the emergency vehicles as they respond from the fire station up the hill. It's very beautiful here, with vivid, lush green trees everywhere and nice landscaping around homes and businesses and room to comfortably spread out. There are lots of highways and main arteries so getting around is easy. But geez, it shouldn't be this hard to find where to get my hair cut and my clothes cleaned.

Retail Montana-Style -- Yay Vann's!

Several years ago, I decided to buy a DVR -- you know, a TiVo-type device -- and I opted for Replay TV, a TiVo competitor. Going online to find the best deal -- I probably went to CNet -- netted me a handsome list of online retailers with prices within $10 or $20 of each other.

One of them was Vann's. Vanns.com. They were in Montana and I thought...I bet I'd get treated well by a Montana retailer. I think they were a few dollars more than the lowest retailer but I went with them. Good move. A week or two after receiving my Replay TV, I had a couple of questions and called Vann's. On the phone. You know, the way we used to do things? I could find the phone number easily and when I called, a human being answered, one who spoke English as a first language -- two things that are hard to find these days. And they answered my question expertly. These were not people laboring through a script -- these guys knew what they were talking about. How totally refreshing!

I have bought other things from them since then, most recently a digital camera for my mom for Mother's Day. I found the camera I wanted for my mom in a May 9 article in the Wall Street Journal online in a Mossberg Solution column. (I'd link to it but it's subscription only.) And I went searching for this "under $130" camera, found it at vanns.com for $124 with free shipping, called to see if they could get it to my mom in two days -- okay, so I didn't plan ahead. Yes, for $10, worth it! In 5 minutes the whole thing was done. Mom got the camera on Friday and everybody's happy!

The point is that it was easy, it was as inexpensive as I could get the item anywhere, they handled my special request with elan and didn't charge me through the roof, it took me no time, we understood each other, and there was no hassle. All transactions should be that way.

Someone with a heavy accent called me yesterday and left me a message saying she would send me the supplies I needed if I would call her back and tell her which of two addresses they had on file was the right one. (I just moved.) Her accent was so heavy that I couldn't understand her name or what company she was calling from. I'm sure she was legit, but, sadly, that's more what I'm used to these days. I've made a lot of phone calls to change my address since I moved -- you can't do everything online, unfortunately -- and probably half or two-thirds of the time, I talk to someone with a heavy foreign accent. Or try to, anyway. Sometimes I have to repeat my address or my name or the spelling of my name or my street or my city three or four times. What a great way to spend time, eh? And they're not all in India.

It's to the point where I thank them if a human being answers before I've been on hold for six minutes, and thank them if I can understand them immediately and thank them if I'm off the phone in under five minutes. Vann's is about the only one I've thanked lately. You can bet I'll do more business with them. Here's to Montana and to Vann's!

Green with Joy

When the leasing agent showed me the apartment I moved into two weeks ago when it was empty, I was drawn to the forest views out of every window. I had that in my place in New Jersey and hated the idea of giving it up. Between the views and the layout (not your usual apartment layout), I knew I had a winner and got my checkbook out on the spot to secure it.

At that time, the trees outside the windows were just big, contorted twigs. There wasn't a leaf on one of them. But I knew that soon there would be.

When I moved in on April 16, there still were zero leaves. It was still quite pretty in an artistic kind of way and I knew to be patient.

Well, about three days ago, the first leaves popped out. Now I have a stunning mixture of green shimmering leaves and brown-grey asymmetrical tree trunks and twisty branches in my view. It's even more awesome than I anticipated.

The tree nearest my balcony has no leaves yet, and I wonder if it's a late bloomer or dead. There are remnants of two abandoned bird's nests in that tree. I'm such a tree dummy that I have no idea what kind of tree it is or what kind of birds would nest there. I hope the tree is alive and does end up majestically green but even if it doesn't there are plenty of luscious trees behind it to fill in the panorama. (When I find my digital camera, I'll take a picture and post it here....Okay, found it later when all of the leaves are out, and the pic is full-tilt boogie for the leaves.)

Who knew that leaves could inspire such joy? After a tough week last week, it feels good to be joyful again. Thank you, Mother Nature. Your timing is excellent!

Reining in the Discomfort that Rains on Me

I liked to think of myself as a relatively unflappable person, mature enough to handle disruptions and bumps in the road, large and small. I was so wrong!

Turns out that I'm like the Princess and the Pea as far as any kind of deviation from the routines of my life go. How disappointing.

Everything in my life has changed in the last couple of months and I'm both enjoying it all immensely and totally upset about all of the discomfort of change. I moved to Maryland last weekend (on the two days of the nasty Nor'easter, as I wrote about in my previous post) and nearly everything is foreign or missing.

New town and state -- and I don't know the streets or highways or nicknames for places or where the closest post office is or where to get good Mexican food or which stores carry Diet Black Cherry Vanilla Coke or whether talking on my cell phone while driving is legal or not.

New place to live -- and I love it, especially the forest views from every window, but I can't find anything. I scrupulously taped remotes and cords and connectors to each electronic device but can't find my sandals or my receipts for expenses from March or two cushions for my sofa bed or my favorite sheets that match my comforter. I learned just today that the remote for the underground parking garage isn't necessary to get out -- I had wondered why the left door kept opening when I pushed the button instead of the right one. (Duh -- the electric eye lets me out, so the remote is only necessary to get in.)

Even some of the things that should work don't. After they hooked up my phone, I called a new friend here and she told me that another number and name showed up on her caller ID. Sure enough, that's the number that rings in my house. Yet my voice mail works with the number they assigned to me. Verizon will take care of it in two days. How's that for service? And my cell phone somehow made its way into a sink of sudsy water just before I moved so it's new and I don't know how to get the video part to work or download ring tones and I found out the hard way that the same button on the side of the phone that quieted the ringer on my previous phone just cuts off the call on this one.

Don't even get me started on work. Everything there is new, different and not the way I'm used to doing things. Building, phone system, style of desk and office, colleagues, computer, route to work. I don't know where to get envelopes or use the voice mail or transfer a call or find file folders or what the codes are to make photocopies. The name plate outside my office has someone else's name on it.

I'm used to being the answer lady -- after 16 years at my previous employer there wasn't much I didn't know about there -- but here I'm still the one asking questions and trying to get oriented. I can't afford that luxury -- clients and colleagues expect me, as a senior level person, to produce lots and fast and competently.

A good friend of mine, a high-ranking exec, told me recently, "The higher up you are in the organization, the less they tell you when you start working there. They expect you to perform right away and you don't even know where to get a tablet and a pen or where the bathrooms are."

So I'm not handling this all very well. I'm flat exhausted at the end of the day (and I mean day, not even night) from struggling to do everything new. I'm upset at myself for not picking everything up faster. This morning I thought I could at least get to work 25 miles away without my GPS. A normally 30-minute trip took me nearly an hour and a half, so tomorrow I'll hook up my little Garmin friend again. (Best investment I ever made!) I'm frustrated at not being able to just flow through the day, at starting something and then realizing I don't have the next thing I need and don't know where to go to get it or I have to wait days for it. I'm grumpy and ditzy (misplacing things every two minutes because I don't have a routine place to put them) and disorganized and slow and sleepless worrying about all of this.

Yes, yes, yes, I know -- this too shall pass. In six months I won't even remember feeling this way. It is a great adventure. I know this is a very good move for me and I'm excited about it. I see it as a long-term decision. But meanwhile, I'm so uncomfortable with discomfort, having emotionally budgeted for a much smaller amount of it than I am experiencing, and tonight it's 1:00 a.m. and here I am, up stewing.

Keyless in Columbia

My NASCAR key ring sits empty on the table next to my car keys for the first time in my adult life that I can remember. It's the strangest sensation....

I'm moving from Woodbridge, N.J., to Columbia, Maryland -- today. I moved out of my 2,400-sq.-ft., 3-story duplex in Woodbridge yesterday and turned in my keys. (I've been temperamentaly better suited to be a renter than a buyer for years. I like the idea of being able to change my life in short order, which is what I have done this time.) My furniture and "stuff" spent the night in a locked moving van in Jersey City, N.J., and the four guys from White Glove Moving Co. who loaded everything are on their way to Columbia as I write this at 6:00 a.m. from the comfort of a Marriott Courtyard in Columbia. I take possession of my new apartment in three hours.

So I will have been homeless for 17-1/2 hours by the time my new keys are on my ring. I spent nearly four of those hours driving from Woodbridge to Columbia in a merciless driving rain that actually slowed people down on the New Jersey Turnpike. Officially the speed limit was lowered to 45 mph along the whole 100-mile NJ Turnpike stretch of the drive, and people actually "only" drove about 60 in the normally 65-mph zone where traffic usually zips along at about 80.

The drive wasn't much fun. We -- my friend Michele from Seattle who's (thankfully) helping me move and I -- only saw one accident on the way down and it wasn't serious, but the rain was relentless and intense and the wind whipped at the car in bumpy gusts. It took us longer than usual because of the weather and we were both eager to get to the hotel to eat dinner and settle in for a long nighttime nap after our long day of moving. But our accommodations were (and are) comfortable (I love Marriotts) and a good meal at Red Robin ended the day on a happy note.

My move is occurring, unfortunately, on the two days of a nasty record-breaking Nor'easter. They talked about it on TV for days before it hit. Yesterday was the driving, pelting, soaking-everything rain, nearly 8 inches worth. (I thought I saw animals lining up two-by-two.) I hated the idea that my furniture and zillions of boxes and accessories would get wet and damaged in the few feet between my garage and the moving van. We'll see how it all ends up. Today, though, is the wind, and I mean major-league wind. On the news this morning they are saying it's gusting to the equivalent of a Category 2 hurricane. Gusts are up to 60 mph, averaging around 45 mph. The trees outside our 4th-floor hotel room window are swaying back and forth like animated dancing figures in a Disney musical. I hope the guys in "my" moving van are faring well on the drive down. Scary, this wind is scary.

So the few hours of being homeless for me are about as cushy and comfortable as they can be. I am grateful for my life and my blessings. Every day I am but this morning I am especially so. If the biggest thing I'm worried about in my homeless hours is a fierce storm (and how I'm going to fit everything into half the space I had in New Jersey), I'm in great shape.

Michele just asked me, "Doesn't it feel good to wake up not in New Jersey?" I laughed. More than that, it feels better to wake up in my new home town and tomorrow I'll wake up in my own bed in my new home in my new home town. The rain and wind will be gone and it will be warmer, in the 50s. And my NASCAR key chain will be full again.

Jet Blue, Get a Clue

Thank God, this is not my story. We in the Northeast are in the midst of a winter snow-and-ice storm that has netted over 1,000 auto accidents on Northern New Jersey streets today and stopped airplanes in the New York City area's three airports (JFK, LaGuardia, Newark). I had to go into the city today -- that's Manhattan -- and that was grim enough. I took little tiny steps on the superslick sidewalks, leaning forward to move my center of gravity to decrease my chances of falling. I hung on to the rail for dear life when I was descending the steps down into the subway. I made it back home in one piece, and my Nissan Altima is now safely and warmly tucked into my garage for the night. And I'm warm and dry and grateful.

On the 11:00 p.m. news tonight, they ran a story about passengers of a Jet Blue plane sitting on the tarmac today for 11 hours. People were cursing and yelling and sobbing, passengers reported. They had no food or water for several hours, reportedly up to six hours, supposedly, the airline says, so they could be ready to take off when the weather cleared.

Understandably, the passengers who talked to the news station were upset. Some didn't care that they got an apology from the airline (in a statement they issued) plus their money back plus a free trip anywhere Jet Blue flies. One guy who was interviewed said he never wanted to be in another Jet Blue plane again. No kidding! I'm not signing up for a Jet Blue flight in the foreseeable future either.

What the heck was Jet Blue thinking???? This is the kind of incident that gets Congress to pass an Airline Passengers' Bill of Rights. It's the kind of incident that makes me wonder how the pilot resopnded when the flight attendants told him (or her) how bonkers the passengers were getting. One American Airlines pilot in January under similar circumstances had had enough after an unthinkable nine hours on the tarmac and defied official orders and pulled the plane back into an empty gate. No doubt he got chastised if not punished and penalized, but in truth he should get a medal.

I fly a lot and have been delayed for weather problems, traffic problems, mechanical problems and crew problems, sometimes for as long as two or three hours. That was torment enough even when drinks and pretzels were handed out, movies shown and permission granted to use cell phones. We were comfortable. Water was plentiful, the toilets worked and everyone was calm and cooperative. But after even four hours, I think people would be relatively nutsy and I can't even imagine 11 hours in those circumstances.

By and large, philosophically I'm a libertarian -- meaning that I advocate as little government interference and legislation as possible. Live and let live. But...the airlines shouldn't be allowed to make people sit in an airplane at an airport longer than maybe four hours without being made to let passengers off to get food, stay off the plane if they want to and just get sane again. And while they're doing that, they should service the plane to ensure that people can be comfortable on it. How inhumane it is to treat people the way airlines treat them on a good day -- with their narrow little seats that maybe half of the butts on the plane comfortably fit into, and their stingy leg room, and their inconsideration of people's needs and schedules -- let alone on a day when they make their so-called valuable customers sit on a plane on the tarmac for that many hours.

Jet Blue, get a clue. Congress, for God's sake, pass a law. If any one of those Senators or Congresspersons had been on that plane today, you can bet there'd be a law introduced within a week. As well there should be.

Miracle in My Mouth, Until...

One of my great medical gifts came a few years ago when a Michigan dentist I met online told me that a drop of Fluocinonide gel (0.05%) dabbed on a fledgling canker sore would get rid of it by the next day. I absolutely didn't believe him.

Those nasty little devils last for days, usually well over a week, sometimes nearly two. They get sore like a Bell curve so that if you get one on a Sunday, by Wednesday you don't want to eat anything that has any acid in it whatsoever, or anything at all, really, before they gradually ease off. Painful, cruel little mouth ulcers, they are.

I'd suffered from frequent multiple canker sores since childhood, at times as many as half a dozen at a time scattered throughout my mouth on my cheek walls, down where my lower gums met my inside lower lips, and even creeping toward the outer part of my lips that shows. Not like a cold sore -- cold sores can be "shared" with other people, whereas canker sores are not contagious, if that's the right word. But sore as hell. Anyone who's had them, especially frequently, knows how disruptive they can be to eating, talking, sleeping and just sitting. They pack a lot of pain into a couple of square millimeters.

Getting a doctor to prescribe the Fluocinonide for me was a challenge. It's approved for topical use only and inside the mouth isn't considered topical. But I convinced my local dentist at the time to let me try it.

Bliss!

It really sends those little nasties back from whence they came. If you put a little drop on the sore just as it's developing, and if you do it a few times a day, by the next morning it is really, truly gone. As if it never tried to exist. A miracle! (If you wait too long, until the canker sore has developed to be bigger than a pin prick, it's too late and it grows nearly as big and lasts nearly as long as usual. And don't get anything but the gel. The other forms just won't work the same and they taste medicinal, unlike the gel.)

That was a decade ago and I've made sure I don't run out of the miracle gel ever since. It takes me nearly a year to go through a 15g tube. The tubes as they are handled and jostled around in my purse tend to leak and I lose some from each tube. So I don't ingest enough for the steroids in it to do anything bad to me. At least as far as I know.

It hasn't been easy. I have had to argue with several doctors over the years to get them to prescribe it. "That's not what it's supposed to be for," they tell me. But I'm passionate about it, insistent that they trust me and give me that relief, and if they don't, I switch doctors. Any doctor who doesn't trust a person who knows their own body isn't worth keeping.

My canker sores tend to come in waves. Several will pop up one or two at a time for several weeks and then I'll be free of them for a month or two or more. I always have my handy gel with me to nip the little suckers in the bud so they don't blossom into anything. I'm so grateful for the Fluocinonide gel. It's eliminated an ongoing discomfort and helped my love life. (If I have to explain that, go read another blog.)

So...when my bleach for teeth made my mouth sore (see my previous blog entry, "The Price of Vanity") , much like it did when I first got braces in 9th grade, I turned to my old friend Fluocinonide.

Big mistake!

Apparently the bleaching gel and the steroid gel don't get along. They fought like siblings in my mouth, unbeknownst to me, and kept the fisticuffs up until my whole lower face was swollen like I've never experienced. I almost never react badly to drugs so I was thrown for a loop. I blamed the bleaching gel, or rather my ineptitude at keeping it within its little tray prison while in my mouth. But last night as the swelling was finally measurably subsiding, my mouth and lips were feeling a little raw so I put a light coating of Fluocinonide gel between my gums and my lips and even a little on my lips themselves. When I woke up at 4:00 a.m., I felt puffy-swollen again, even without the bleaching gel. I staggered to the mirror and was chagrined to see myself swelled up like I had balloons in my cheeks and neck and collagen-run-wild in my lips. Uuuuuuug-leeeeee!

That's when I got it. It wasn't either one of the gels that was the culprit, it was their chemical reaction when encountering each other.

So...I'm drinking a LOT of water today and now, mid-day, I look closer to my old self again. My jawline still looks a bit like a squirrel's but my top lip isn't fat-lip size anymore, which is a relief. When something like this happens, the fear is that it's not just simple swelling but that I'd permanently disfigured myself. I know, catastrophizing isn't productive, but those thoughts do charge through the mental gates of reason once in awhile.

No more gels of any kind for me for awhile. And no more medical tales here for awhile. That's what consumes a lot of people when they get old(er) and I'd hate for you to think that I'm in that category. Ahem.