Lady Liberty (Final New York Thoughts)

I have traveled fairly extensively (not as much as others I know but Jennifer and I have hit most of Western Europe and I have seen a large part of the U.S.). That probably sounds as if I am beating my chest with pride in between keyboard strikes. I mention it not to boast but to add some perspective to the following:

Flying is a miserable experience during which I worry about bombs, hijacking, general terrorism, fires, mechanical failure, pilot error, lack of leg space, lost luggage, weather, air traffic controller error, hearing damage, hydraulic failure, computer failure, engine shutdown, turbulence, and the onset of diarrhea with only inadequate and possibly unavailable plane facilities.

I find solace where I can. I always pray. Always. Flying is not the only time I pray but I find irony in how perceived lack of control brings out religion in me. Sometimes I distract myself by reading a book or a magazine or looking at Skymall. More often, when I am not seated over the wing or on an aisle too far away, I look out the windows. Seeing the world from so far up is the only positive part of the actual experience of flying.

I enjoy seeing cars, roads, cities, lakes, and other minutia that is visible. I especially like to see landmarks that are recognizable such as the Mississippi River, the Rocky Mountains, or the Grand Canyon. One of my favorite experiences is flying on a day with low, thick cloud cover. It’s wonderful when the plane breaks through the clouds and reveals the brightly beaming sun. I feel as if God reaches down and pulls a giant curtain away from an equally giant lamp. The experience floors me.

None of those experiences prepared me for what I saw during my plane’s approach to LaGuardia. As the pilot was announcing we would be landing in 7 minutes, I looked out the window on the left side of the plane and saw nothing but buildings and streets. I was amazed at the number of buildings and I’m certain I stared with my mouth wide open. Momentarily, though, the buildings in half my view gave way to water and I realized that, being so close to New York City and given the direction we were flying, we had to be over the Atlantic Ocean just south of New York harbor. A few seconds later my belief was confirmed when the Statue of Liberty, in her patina glory, appeared in my window.

I was awestruck. I am not ashamed to admit that tears welled in my eyes. I do not generally appreciate the cheesy, Lee Greenwood form of patriotism. The Statute of Liberty, though, is such an icon of freedom that I couldn’t help myself. I thought about all the people that, to seek a better life, had fled their country of birth for any number of reasons and had been welcomed to our great country by Ms. Liberty. I thought about how she represents the thoughts and ideals of a government so revolutionary that it had never before even been contemplated. I thought about how, even though I disagree with many decisions W has made, I have twice exercised my right to vote against him. I thought that because of her, or at least the ideas she represents, I get to choose the people that govern me. Wow! She is beautiful.

Later in the week, Jennifer and I rode the Staten Island ferry to get a closer view of the Statue of Liberty and, on the return trip to Manhattan, the lower Manhattan skyline. We had a good time even though the day was exceedingly gray. Here are a couple of pictures:

We had a great time seeing the Statue up close and joking around. Clearly not everyone is as impressed with the Statue as I was. When we sat down on the ferry and the Statute came into view, Jennifer pointed at the huge skyscrapers on the Southern tip of Manhattan and said, “I thought it would be bigger. When she fights, the Stay-Puffed Marshmallow man in Ghostbusters, she’s as big as some of those buildings. The base is as big as she is. What a gyp.”

I laughed out loud at her reaction. She had a similar reaction to Big Ben. She said something like, “It’s Big Ben. If it’s got big in the name, it better be big.”

Chinatown

Jennifer and I visited Chinatown on Friday afternoon after I got out of my conference. Overall, I enjoyed the neighborhood. It isn’t as visually stunning as the neighborhood of the same name in San Francisco. In my opinion, it’s owing to the architecture being less Asian influenced and more utilitarian. New York also lacks the hills of San Francisco which, in my opinion, make San Francisco a much more pleasing city to view in general but especially so in Chinatown.

We took one lone picture, on a side street near Little Italy, while we were there. It is a self portrait I took by holding the camera far out with my left hand, which accounts for my slightly wild expression. Here it is (nice double chin, huh?):

When we arrived in Chinatown, we walked out of the Subway entrance onto Canal Street. Canal is the street that borders Chinatown on the uptown side of the neighborhood and is the main commercial street. There were throngs of people shopping in the Asian trinket shops selling cheap souvenirs. Most of them sold the same weird mix of merchandise, tiny statues of Buddha and Chinese paper lamps alongside miniature Statue of Liberty figurines and I heart NY t-shirts.

We walked along and went into the stores that we perceived as interesting exceptions. We browsed in one store that had all sorts of martial arts items: swords, spears, Ninja outfits, Bruce Lee t-shirts, etc. Another, that was called Asian Superstore or something similar, had a huge variety of dried food. We couldn’t make out what was in all the packages because many of them were labeled solely in Chinese. I did find some that also had English labels and confirmed that they had dried octopus and eel beside dried beets and peaches. The packages peaked my interest but I ended up buying none of them. We also went in a few shoe stores where Jennifer tried on several pairs but didn’t buy anything.

Along the street, there were also street vendors selling both hand-made tchotchke and designer knock off sunglasses, coats, shirts, and purses. My mind was boggled at the amount of merchandise and money that was changing hands on the street alone.

After we had been shopping for some time and as we were nearing the edge of Chinatown, I heard a sharp, high woman’s voice yelling in quick but broken and Chinese-accented English. Her tirade went on for several seconds before we reached the sidewalk just beside where she was facing a police officer. He was standing on the curb, looking at her with obvious patience but with a necessary air of authority. He was at least two feet taller than her. Just before she stopped yelling to catch her breath, she said, “I not understand why you fine us.” He took her pause as an opportunity to admonish her in his own New York-accented speech. He said, “I’m only gonna ask you to stop yellin’ at me one more time.” I could see the fire in her eyes spark and she started in again with, “I yellin’ cause you makin’ me soooooooo mad!” He responded by calmly saying, “Oh, you’re breakin’ my heart.”

His response was the last understandable thing I could hear. She clearly was still very angry and started yelling again. I wanted to take a picture of them facing one another but the momentum of the crowd pulled us past them quickly. The whole exchange that we witnessed took place in less than a minute. It could have been a scene from a television crime show set in New York. Jennifer and I later tried to guess why the policeman fined her. Jennifer thinks it’s probable that she was selling faux-designer purses. We’ll never know for certain but Jennifer’s explanation is plausible; I recently read an article about how the city is cracking down on the knock offs because it is eating into the sales of the real thing. I understand why designers don’t want their labels used without permission but I also find it hard to believe that someone who planned to buy a designer purse would buy the cheap version instead.

Whatever, I was glad we witnessed the interaction. It capped off an interesting visit to a vibrant neighborhood.

Random Airport Thoughts

As I sat in the airport last Wednesday waiting to board my plane, I wrote down several random thoughts and observations. Here are a few:

Without much effort, I saw four people in my immediate area talking on mobile phones. Another person was reading email on his Blackberry. They were all dressed in business attire. As I sat there, I wondered if the technology that constantly connects us to the work world is destroying our souls. Shortly thereafter, I hypocritically used my mobile phone to check my work voice mail.

When left alone with my own thoughts, my mind often wanders to worries that it shouldn’t. After I checked my voice mail, I wrote down all the things that I had worried about since sitting down to wait. Here they are in no particular order:

1. Weather in St. Louis (my connection airport to NY).
2. Zoie being scared at the boarding facility if it storms; she hates storms.
3. Weather in Atlanta the next day (Jennifer flew through Atlanta).
4. Not having too many emails when I get back to work.
5. Finding the location of my conference the next day.
6. If my throat was scratchy because of allergies or if I was getting a cold (turned out to be allergies – some Claritin seriously helped).
7. If I had brought enough clothes to stay warm in NY.
8. If the mechanic who serviced the plane was well trained.
9. If the pilot who would fly the plane was well trained.
10. If the air traffic controllers in Little Rock, St. Louis, and LaGuardia had plenty of sleep the previous night.

I know that I’ve been commanded not to worry. After all, who can add even an hour to his or her life by worrying? I do it anyway. I am seriously frustrated when I worry about things totally out of my control. Of the above, #5 is the only thing I could do anything about. The rest were totally out of my control.

One of the people on his mobile phone was sitting near enough to me and talking loudly enough that I could hear his whole conversation. He was talking to his wife and was complaining about how the TSA personnel in Little Rock are stupid. He kept talking about how one of them asked him three times if he had a boarding pass. He said that he continued saying yes and the woman just continued asking if he had a boarding pass. He told his wife that, instead of showing it to her, he just kept saying yes because, according to him, she should have been more specific and asked to see it, not just asked if he had one. Personally, I don’t mess with the TSA people because I fear being subjected to an anal probe.

He bothered me. He struck me as a person who complains about something no matter the situation. I thought that I never want to be like him; I find too much joy in life. Then, hypocritically again, I made list of things that had bothered me while I waited:

1. The sound of crinkling cellophane.
2. The sound of someone rummaging through a purse.
3. The sound of keys being stricken on a laptop.
4. Someone having a loud conversation on their mobile phone in a public area (such as the gate area in an airport).
5. The fact that I correct myself when I have the urge to call it a cell phone instead of a mobile phone (cell phone is often too specific because not all mobile phones utilize cell technology. But, seriously, no one cares).

I Love New York

Seriously. Paris is still my favorite city but I fell in love with New York. So many interesting things to see and do. No way to be bored.

I left Little Rock on Wednesday. Because Jennifer had a test Thursday afternoon, she didn’t leave Little Rock until Thursday. As a result, I had to occupy my time on Wednesday evening by myself. I decided to go to Times Square. Because our hotel was only a few blocks uptown from Times Square on 6th Avenue, I walked.

Getting there was more than half the fun.

Because I was parched from the plane flight, I stopped along the way at a convenience store/deli to buy a huge water. When I walked in the door, the small, old Asian man behind the counter smiled and bellowed, “Good evening!” I smiled and walked to the back of the store to the refrigerators with clear doors. As I approached the cooler, I saw four young men sitting around a flimsy table. They were talking and laughing loudly in Spanish. I think their laughter was artificially inflated by the numerous empty Sol and Corona bottles sitting on the table. Their mirth was infectious. I bought my water and continued walking.

A half block from the store, I saw a man near the curb sitting behind a huge keyboard. He was facing a sizeable crowd. Most of them were sitting on the edge of a fountain but some were standing. When I was only a few yards away, I heard him sing, “Can’t get enough of your love babe…” The crowd erupted with applause and cheering. I asked myself, “Barry White?!? What’s this guy doing?” He continued as the crowd quieted to listen. On the front of his keyboard, a sign was taped that read, “New York’s #1 Barry White Impersonator.” I thought, “Is there more than one?” He was a big man but, in my opinion, didn’t otherwise physically resemble Barry White that closely. He did sound like him, at least on “Can’t get enough…” I walked past the crowd and could hear Barry for the next block and ½. He was great and, if he is as good on other Barry White songs, I would bet he is New York’s #1.

More to come later…

NYC

Nothing new to post. I’m leaving today for NYC (work conference). Trying to get ready to be out of the office has made work crazy. Will be back on Sunday evening. I’ll hopefully have some interesting stories or pictures to share.

Congratulations and Thanks

This past Saturday we went to Memphis for J’s bachelor party. It was a wonderful celebration. Most importantly, I believe J had a great time. Spending the better part of Saturday and Sunday in Memphis with friends, I was reminded how utterly blessed I am with great friends.

Given the upcoming nuptials, I sat in Peabody Place Sunday morning, while everyone else slept, and read the newspaper, drank Starbucks, and considered the present circumstance in which we find Jennie and J. I’ve known J for over 12 years. For a while, though, we lost touch. I met Jennie just a few years ago at a New Year’s Eve party at Jason and Wendy’s house.

As I have gotten to know them both over the past few years, I am continually amazed at how unique and special they both are and how well suited they are for one another. I feel strongly that they will build an utterly happy home together. With anticipation, I look forward to continuing my friendship with them.

Congratulations J and Jennie!

I hold Adam Duritz accountable

I can’t remember all the times I tried to tell myself
To hold on to these moments as they pass
And it’s one more day up in the canyon
And it’s one more night in Hollywood
It’s been so long since I’ve seen the ocean…I guess I should

Counting Crows, from A Long December

I miss the ocean. I am never more at peace than when I’m sitting on the beach with my feet in the sand, looking out at the vastness of the water. I find it wonderfully mind boggling.

I don’t completely understand the relationship but I love that the moon’s gravity impacts the tide.

I was in Miami and Key West in January. That is too long ago…

What is it about water that so mesmerizes human beings? I’m definitely drawn to it. Many others obviously are as well or it wouldn’t figure so prominently in as many religions as it does. It’s clearly purifying and life sustaining. But still. It’s bewitching.

Freshly Cut Grass

We live in a well established neighborhood. There are a couple of mature oak trees in our yard and several more in neighboring yards. Consequently, our yard becomes covered in leaves each autumn. There is nothing extraordinary about dead leaves congregating in a yard, especially if the yard’s owner appropriately rakes them. I don’t. We have lived in our house almost three years and I have never raked leaves. Most of them blow out of the yard and into the yards of our neighbors. But some of them are stopped by one of the various barriers throughout our yard. For instance, there are piles of leaves in the flower beds in front of our house, behind our house, under the deck, around the gate in the fence leading to our back yard, along the northern edge of the fence, and an especially large pile on the north side of our storage shed. Our neighbors hate us.

Yesterday, I decided to mow the grass and clean up the leaves. Since the leaves are piled in areas I could mow around, I thought that mowing the grass would be the appropriate first step because, after the grass was mowed, raking would be easier. I went to our storage shed and retrieved the mower, grass trimmer, and gas can that was pleasantly and surprisingly full of gas. At the same time, I carried the trimmer and gas can and pulled the mower up the sharp slope of our back yard. It would have been easier to make two trips but I was fighting the sun’s descent and didn’t want to take the time.

After filling the mower with gas, I put the trimmer and the gas can on the front porch. I pushed the mower to one corner of the yard and primed it. I pulled the rope and it started like a champ. I mowed a strip of grass near the road and turned on our sidewalk that bisects the front yard. I admired my progress and started walking the opposite direction. I mowed another strip and thought, “Maybe this isn’t so bad after all. I’ll knock out the yard, clean up the leaves and be done before dark.” I turned to head back toward the sidewalk and, before I could stop, mowed over a relatively small tree branch. Underneath the mower, I heard a clunk. The engine sputtered three or four times and was then silent. In spite of hating yard work, I have mowed lawns my whole life and it is not unusual to have the engine quit on a mower after hitting something. But when I pulled the starter chord, the accursed mower, with which I had the privilege of working, didn’t do a thing.

I pulled several more times. Nothing. I checked the oil and, while it was a blacker than it should have been, I found there to be plenty. In desperation and in spite of knowing nothing practical about engines, I attempted to unscrew the air filter cover – with my thumbnail. It broke (my thumbnail, not the screw). About this time, Jennifer pulled into our driveway and got out of her car. She asked, “How’s it going?”

I grumbled, “Not well,” and jerked the starter rope three or four times rapidly. I thought maybe continual movement of the drive shaft would somehow kick the motor into action. It didn’t help. Jennifer had been watching and asked, “Is it out of gas?” I breathed deeply and mustered all the patience within me and answered negatively. Sensing that I had lost my mind with rage, Jennifer went inside. I jerked the starter rope a few more times for good measure. Nothing.

I followed Jennifer inside, went into the bathroom and picked up some fingernail clippers. I clipped off the part of my thumbnail that had broken and marched to the kitchen and retrieved a flathead screw driver. I returned to the mower and took off the air filter. It was black in places where it should have been green (its original color). I intellectually understand how engines work and I didn’t believe the air filter, even in its filthy condition, should have completely killed the engine. I decided to reinstall the filter and try again.

As I was screwing the cover back on, a couple walked by our yard. I ignored them but the woman said, “Do you think it’s going to start?” If I live to be 674 years old, I will never understand why she asked me that question. Maybe she felt the need to fill awkward silence? I had intentionally not looked at either of them so they didn’t have to say anything. I guess I hadn’t totally lost my mind because I stared at her but restrained myself from choking her. After I stared for what I felt was a sufficient amount of time to display my disgust, I answered flatly, “I don’t know.”

I finally gave up and returned the mower to the shed. After a few minutes of reflection, I realized how silly it is to get angry about something totally out of my control. On a daily basis, I rarely lose my temper but situations such as yesterday’s, that involve machinery and something that I didn’t want to do anyway, tend to more quickly and severely irritate me than any other. I am just thankful I didn’t say anything that I would later have regretted.

Arkansas Ornithology

As Jennifer and I did this past weekend, we drive on U.S. Highway 65 between Little Rock and northwest Arkansas when we visit my parents. North from Conway, the route quickly takes us out of the Arkansas River valley and up the southeast corner of the Ozark Plateau. There are a few towns along the route but they are all small and the route is mostly rural. Along the way, the Highway tops a few of the taller mountains and provides some great vistas between the trees. I am always impressed, especially during Spring and Fall when changes in the landscape are dramatic.

When traveling North, one of my favorite scenes is just south of Marshall. The highway tops a mountain there and you can see the valley where Marshall was established and all the mountains surrounding it. The best vantage point is at a slight bend in the road directly before the descent into the valley where Marshall lies. For years, the place had been a rest stop and observation point for tourists to stop and take pictures. Recently, however, a rock shop has opened where the rest stop was located. I suppose even nature doesn’t stand in the way of capitalism.

As we passed the rock shop last Saturday, I was looking at the scenery, not paying enough attention to driving, and almost rear ended a beat up, red Chevrolet S-10. The truck’s body was boxy enough that I recognized it to be at least 10 years old, maybe older. The truck’s small bed was almost completely filled with a top loading deep freezer. Following behind, the freezer was not secured nearly as well as I would have liked. The driver understood the precariousness of the situation and was driving about 35 MPH in an attempt to compensate for the lack of appropriate restraints.

As I approached the S-10, I had plenty of time to stop but I saw that no cars were in the oncoming lane so, instead of slamming on my brakes and waking Jennifer and the dogs, I pushed the accelerator and went around the truck. That particular stretch of the Highway is very wide with substantial visibility so, as I passed the truck, I wasn’t in a hurry to move back into the appropriate lane and turned my right blinker on for several seconds to make sure the S-10’s driver had plenty of notice that I was pulling in front of him. I finished the maneuver and drove on to Marshall.

Just inside the Marshall city limits, there is a traffic light that, from the casual observer, appears unnecessary. I was thankful that it was green when I came into town. I cruised through it but slowed down somewhat for the requisite reduction in speed limit for the small town. To my surprise, I noticed in my rear view mirror that the S-10 was approaching at a speed far greater than my own. I pulled into the right lane and the S-10 sped past. The driver of the truck was honking his horn as he stuck his thick arm and hand straight up in the air and flew the ugliest bird I have ever seen. His fat, stubby middle finger stuck straight up in the air such that I wasn’t even sure it was directed at me. When he pulled in front of me and slowed down considerably, though, there was no question that I had somehow offended this gray-bearded man in his sad, little truck.

I was shocked. It is not the first time that someone has flipped me off and I am certain it will not be the last. In this instance, however, I couldn’t figure out what I had done to so upset this man. When I approached him at the top of the mountain, I had gotten closer than I would have liked but not so close that I was seriously worried about hitting him. Maybe he was offended that I had passed him instead of waiting for the four lane at the bottom of the mountain?

I exclaimed, “What the f—!” I half awoke Jennifer and she asked, “What’s wrong?” I told her about the guy in the truck in front of us. By the time she was thoroughly awake and sitting up, the man had pulled beside a U-Haul that was driving about 25 MPH and refused to go any faster. I just said, “Nice.” Jennifer said, “The U-Haul is going faster, go behind it and just go around him.” As she made her suggestion, the man flew his ugly, stubby bird again. I said, “I don’t think so, he seems a little crazy. He probably has a shotgun or something.” She replied, “There is probably a dead body in that freezer.”

At what I hoped was a safe distance behind, I followed him through Marshall. It was only a couple of miles but, for those few minutes, time seemingly stopped. He turned onto a side road near the edge of town and, as he did, he flipped me off one last time. I suspect the final bird was for emphasis or in case I hadn’t seen him the first two times.

While I knew better, I still had wanted to return his gesture of good will. I ultimately resisted because I didn’t want to escalate the situation. I asked Jennifer why she thought he had gotten so mad. She joked, “Probably because you’re more handsome than him.” Her statement led me to quote Braveheart, “This can’t be William Wallace; I’m prettier than this man!” We started talking about movie quotes we both like and drove on toward Berryville. Until just a few minutes ago, I forgot about the angry man in his red S-10.

Buster’s last bottle – or nearly so

We went to my parents’ house yesterday and spent the night. Among the other animals he is caring for, Dad is paying special attention to a two month old calf (bottle feeding, special grain). The calf’s mother died giving birth and Dad named him Buster. I intended to ask Dad if the name has particular meaning but forgot. Here is a picture:

I find it interesting that most of the cattle in the herd do not receive names but, under certain circumstances like Buster’s, they do.

When we arrived yesterday, Jennifer immediately noticed Buster in the pen adjacent to Dad’s barn and wanted to pet Buster. We walked over the fence and Buster ran over to us because he thought Jennifer was going to feed him a bottle. He was disappointed. When Dad walked over, Jennifer asked if she could feed him at least a partial bottle. Dad didn’t want to change Buster’s schedule and promised Jennifer could feed Buster his bottle this morning. She was disappointed but agreed.

When I was still sleeping about 8:00 this morning, I felt something brush my forehead. I realized that Jennifer was pushing my hair back and I opened my eyes. She was looking at me from her pillow. I at first thought it was a nice way to be awoken and then I thought about Buster. I asked, “You want to go feed Buster don’t you?” She said, “I dreamt about it.” Just like a child on Christmas morning. I laughed. We went to find Dad and he made a bottle for Buster. Here is Jennifer feeding him:

Dad said she was timely because he thought there was only enough formula for one last bottle. It is time for Buster to stop drinking milk anyway; he needs to eat grain and grass so he will bulk up. It turned out that, after the bottle Jennifer fed Buster, there was enough formula for one last bottle and Buster’s final milk meal will be tomorrow morning. Here is one final picture of Jennifer feeding him with Dad in the background:

I love Asian food

I love a good fortune, not the cookie itself necessarily. I especially love when the fortune includes misspellings as, it seems, they often do. I think it makes me feel a little better knowing that the fortune factory is, like me, fallible. A couple of years ago, I got a fortune that read, “Your principles mean more to you than moeny or success.” Because it didn’t come with a definition, I’m not sure if my principles mean more to me than moeny but I certainly try to keep my life balanced and remember my core values.

Where, incidentally, are fortune cookies manufactured? Who decides what the fortunes say? Are the fortunes inserted pre or post baking? I suppose I could Google fortune cookies but I haven’t. Sounds to me like fodder for a documentary.

I do not believe in a fortune’s ability to predict the future. But from time to time I read one that reminds me of something that I need to remember. My fortune today read, “Your friends are you [sic] greatest comfort. Be nice to them.” I think the strongest friendships are the ones that survive the times when you aren’t nice to one another. They are also the hardest at times but the best…

This I Believe

Ever hear the NPR Series This I Believe? People read essays they have written about something important to them. I’ve found the ones I’ve heard interesting but sometimes I think that I wouldn’t have wasted everyone’s time with the topic. I have also wondered what I would write about if I were given the opportunity to write an essay and read it on national radio. As Andy promised, we will each, after all, get our 15 minutes. I better be ready, right?

I remembered the series a few minutes ago but I’m not sure why. It could be that I again watched U2, on the Johnny Cash tribute, sing The Wanderer. Until I saw it a few months back, I thought no one could top Cash’s version of the song. I thought Bono had written the perfect song for Cash. When I saw Bono sing it, though, I realized that it is Bono’s song. He just loaned it to Cash for use on Zooropa. I think it’s an exquisite song; it has always mesmerized me and inspired…

I digress. I don’t know what I would talk about on This I Believe. The only thing that I can really come up with is to talk about how off kilter the world is and the appropriate solution. People already know it’s screwed up, though. They do not want to be reminded of it; they want to be entertained. DURING THE LAST PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION, MORE PEOPLE VOTED FOR AMERICAN IDOL THAN THE PRESIDENT! I can’t get over that statistic. It drives me crazy.

Even if they know it’s screwed up, though, most of them aren’t ready for a workable solution. So what good is talking to them about it? I’m flummoxed.

For now, I’ll keep making my way by reading Schaeffer, Lewis, and, in spite of her questions without answers, Dillard.

If this is your first night, you have to fight.

Today has not been a stellar day for a couple of reasons. First, I have had to contend with a huge pimple on my face. When I awoke Sunday morning it was waiting, in between my chin and one corner of my mouth, to greet me. It’s the kind of pimple that looks as if somehow a marble was implanted just below my skin.

Actually, it’s healing now. In my opinion, though, the healing is worse because my skin is dry and flaking. It looks as if I am in the beginning stages of leprosy or some unpronounceable, tropical disease. If I have to deal with gray hairs and wrinkles, I should not, under any circumstances, be made to suffer pimples.

This morning, I tried to use some of Jennifer’s concealor to camouflage it a bit. Apparently it was an overwhelming failure because, while riding in the elevator, a guy I know from a couple of floors down asked, “Dude, what happened to your face? Should you wear a surgical mask so you don’t spread whatever it is you have?”

Okay, that didn’t happen. Thankfully, people in the workplace have a bit more tact than high school students, not much but a bit. All morning, though, I was racked with self consciousness and wondered what other people thought about my appearance.

Second, I was looking forward to a short respite during lunch: no co-workers, no bosses, no one arguing with me about what is equitable, no talk of subrogation and indemnification. When I got home, I prepared myself a tuna sandwich and a spring mix salad with feta and bluberries (it’s become my latest obsession, I love the sweetness of the blueberries offset by the sharpness of the feta). I ate the sandwich first and then the salad. Jennifer was home and we chatted while I ate and she got ready for school and work.

After I finished eating, I went to the kitchen to rinse my dishes and noticed that I had splattered a small bit of blueberry juice on the left cuff of my light blue shirt. I was instantly disheartened because it is one of my favorite shirts. It perfectly matches the blue stripe in one of my suits and is partially spandex so it’s unbelievably comfortable. Trying to be positive, I thought, “No big deal, it’s only a little spot.”

I grabbed the Shout out of the cabinet above the washing machine and walked to the bathroom to get a washcloth. I dampened the washcloth and squirted a little shout on the spot. I rubbed lightly, trying to “lift the stain out” as Shout claims to do. Nothing. I turned again to dampen the washcloth in the bathroom sink and, to hopefully lessen my self consciousness, decided to check my pimple’s healing progress. When I did, I realized that I apparently had made my salad with special exploding blueberries because I saw that I had blueberry juice on my forehead and additional spots on the right sleeve of my shirt and a rather large spot near my right collar.

I started to get mad but then I thought about my general ridiculousness and vanity today. Like Ed Norton in Fight Club before the fights start, I was obsessing about things that simply do not matter. I chuckled. I don’t think Jennifer heard me laugh but I told her that I plan to just throw the shirt away. She said that I should see if the cleaners can get out the spot (she only knew of the one). I’m skeptical. I decided it isn’t important, though, and just wore it back to work, spots and all. No one has asked but I’m sure I’ve been an unwelcome sight all afternoon.

IHOP

I hate everything about IHOP. The International House of Pancakes? What’s international about it? Certainly not some crappy batter fried in a skillet. They do offer French style crepes; Jennifer has had them a few times. They sort of look like the crepes I’ve had in France, but I suspect that they are shipped to the individual restaurants precooked and merely heated before they are served. They are served slathered with a weird, gelatinous, orange-flavored spread. It resembles petroleum jelly. Gag a maggot.

According to IHOP’s website, there are 1200 IHOPs throughout the U.S. and Canada. If they are trying to sell Canada as International, I am not buying.

I hate the suburban locations and the constantly full parking lot. I hate the strange table/booths that obviously provide flexibility for seating different size parties but make me uncomfortable because someone, not in your party, is always sitting too close. I hate the terrible, terrible, terrible coffee. I hate the waiting area with its row of booths facing one another. Never is there enough room and people inevitably pour into the little foyer. I hate that, while I’m waiting for a table on weekend mornings, someone will inevitably walk into the packed waiting area, ask how long the wait is, and appear shocked at the answer given by the pitiful host or hostess who is making $3.50 and hour. Didn’t they see the parking lot? Didn’t the packed waiting area give them a clue? People, if you haven’t been on a weekend, IHOP is not the choice for a quick meal. If you want fast, go to McDonald’s or Sonic.

For all these reasons, I hate IHOP. But the foremost reason I hate IHOP is the bad food. Yes, the pancakes are eatable. Who can’t make pancakes? Fried bread is good, no matter what form it takes. Besides, slather just about anything with butter and syrup and people will eat it. What else do they offer? NOTHING.

Jennifer and I went yesterday. Sometimes I’m just not in the mood for fried food so I thought I would try the fresh fruit and yogurt platter with a side of oatmeal. The yogurt came with a strawberry flavored, jelly-like substance mixed in it. I thought, “Why does everything have to be sweetened with a sticky substance at this place?” The oatmeal was pasty. I tried adding some milk but it was beyond help. The fresh fruit was the worst part. It wasn’t fresh. I’m not even certain it was fruit.

I’m not going back, at least not for a long time.

April Fool’s or Christmas?

This evening, Jennifer and I attended a shower for Jennie and J that was cohosted by Jennie’s brothers and sisters-in-law. A good time was had by all. I sat across from where the happy couple opened gifts. It was a good vantage point to take a few pictures. I like this one. It shows Jennie opening a nice Chinese food themed gift: chopsticks, rice bowl, etc. J is holding the booty and, in anticipation of a thank you note, Lori is documenting the gift.

I especially like this one because I’ve been in J’s position and definitely have empathy for him. What do you do with it all the stuff?

In spite of the overwhelming volume of it all, they received some great gifts. But the one that elicited the greatest reaction from the crowd was given by Lori. It was part of a Christmas themed gift and came in a unimpressive, simple cardboard box that was wrapped in cellophane. When J tried it on, however, its grandeur was apparent to all. I love the jolly old elf.

Here is a great one of Mr. and Mrs. Claus. Don’t they look happy?

The Beatles

It’s definitely a Beatles day. Cleaning the house a little, washing clothes and dishes with the iPod shuffling the Beatles. Great day.