November 6, 2011 · 0:00

You’ve Got a Friend

This time it wasn’t my fault.  I didn’t break it.  John did.

Well, we had been meaning to replace the stereo for a while.  It went on without our help, changed from the radio to a CD and would often stop playing for no reason.  Other times it just wouldn’t turn off.  Perhaps it didn’t like our choice in music.  There was a short in it that no one could find.  Well, either that or we had to admit it was haunted.  We decided that broken is way better than spooky.

So that very day when I was writing about how I like to smack stuff, my husband was putting the nail in our stereo’s coffin.

You see, it was playing a song by Steely Dan.  John hates Steely Dan.  He hit the button on the remote, but the song continued.

Ricky don’t lose that number. 

John rushed over to the stereo and pushed the button, gently the first time.  Harder and harder with each successive, um, press of the button.  Until it stopped.  Permanently.   He smacked the stereo’s power button so hard that Ricky lost the number.  Ricky, in fact, would never come back, at least not through that stereo.  It’s dead.

So today we got a new, shock absorbing model.  And putting it onto the shelf sent me back to the last time music haunted me.

We had just moved to Geneva; it was 1997.  Living full-time in a place where they speak another language makes you long for English.  Passionately.  Desperately.  So when my new friend Allison Dornstauder informed me, a mere month after my arrival that there was an English language radio station in Geneva, I was delighted.  WRG – World Radio Geneva.  All English broadcasting.  I knew now that I would survive my Swiss adventure.

But it was weird.  Every time I turned on the radio, whether it was in the car or at home, it played the same song.  It played You’ve Got A Friend.  You know, the Carole King song, also sung by James Taylor?  Both versions are terrific.  I heard neither.

Someone else was always singing it.

At first I thought it was odd; I mean, the Jackson Five singing You’ve Got A Friend?  Why would anyone want to listen to that?  I heard a different version of the song, every time I turned on the radio.  Roberta Flack sang it, Barry Manilow did a duet with Melissa Manchester, and Barbara Streisand belted it.  Every single time I turned on the radio when I was alone, it happened.

Did you know that song has been recorded by at last count, 752 different artists.  And I use the term “artists” loosely.  I heard each and every one of them.

I started to get spooked.  There was nobody I could talk to about this, other than my husband, who thought I was nuts anyway.  That’s why he married me.  But we were new to town, I didn’t know anyone yet, I had no friends.  Who could I talk to about this unnerving phenomenon?  There was my friend Allison, and a couple of other parents I’d chatted with at Jacob’s school.  But I was not yet comfortable confiding such an eerie experience to strangers.

Finally, I did tell Allison.  I tried to be casual about hearing the song so much, and by so many different artists.  She laughed; she didn’t believe me.  But it was true.  Really it was.  I honestly started to think I must be going, well, slightly, insane.  But if I was, I would be damned if it would be to the generic version.  Give me Carole King – it was her song.  Give me James Taylor – he made it a No. 1 hit.  Michael Jackson, Roberta Flack and the rest?  No.  Not good enough.  And don’t give me Barry Manilow doing anything.

Remember, this happened before you could just look up programming online.  Before you could pause and replay.  Before you could record on your computer just what weird thing you were streaming online.  It was the olden days.  Before Google.  Imagine that.

Allison started teasing me about it.  She wouldn’t even humor me; she thought it couldn’t be happening.  But I got back at her.  Whenever it happened and I was at home, I would call her.  Invariably she wasn’t home, and so I put the phone up to the stereo, and I let her know, well, Allison, “You’ve got a friend.”  No message, just the song.  After she was serenaded by 4 or 5 different versions of the song on her answering machine, Allison finally agreed that, well, maybe they were doing something weird with that song.  We became fast friends.

So today, when we plugged in our new stereo, we tuned it in to our favorite pop station and turned it on.  I heard those first few notes and thought, “Oh no.”

And then I heard it, Carole King singing

When you’re down and troubled
And you need some loving care
And nothing, nothing is going right
Close your eyes and think of me
And soon I will be there
To brighten up even your darkest night

You just call out my name
And you know wherever I am
I’ll come running to see you again
Winter, spring, summer or fall
All you have to do is call
And I’ll be there
You’ve got a friend

 It’s good to be back in the States.

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November 4, 2011 · 0:00

Morning!

I’m a violent morning person.  It starts even before I’m awake.  It starts when the alarm goes off.  In this case, my violence would, I’m sure, be excused in a court of law.  I am not fully conscious when I SMACK that alarm clock.  Sadly, I don’t succeed in killing it.  I merely stun it into five precious minutes of silence.  Repeatedly.

This behavior baffles my husband.  More so on those days when he doesn’t set his alarm as usual to off 30 minutes before mine.  On those days when he plans to sleep in a bit. On those days he is “perturbed.”

“Why don’t you just set it for 15 or 20 minutes later?” John asks.

He will never understand me.

“When I hit the snooze button, I feel all-powerful,” I respond.  “Like I have total control over my life.  Even more so when I hit it repeatedly.”

He will never understand me.

Tomorrow is Saturday, and I won’t be turning my alarm on tonight when I go to bed.  But Saturdays are dangerous mornings for my husband.  Because the only thing within smacking distance is him.

I’ve always wondered why he gets up so early on weekends.

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November 2, 2011 · 0:00

Jetson envy

Ever trwy to blog on a treadmill?

Don’t.  EvEr try it. Your hands bounce up and down on the keyboard and you find yourself inserting words and letters into places, well, into places you never intended.  And the CaPS sOMEetimes sticks makingyou look like you would be better offpracticing your typng.

It is realllly tough to walkan d chew gum but this is nearlyt imposissible.

I am doing this for a reason, you know.  You see my old dog has a new trick.  He refuses to go for a walk with me.  Well, he will go 4 minutes down the path at the park.  There are no hills at the park.  Cooper has grown out of hills.  I need to drive him to the park first, of course, picking him up to get him into the car and picking him up to get him out.  I am not sure if that qualifies as weight lifting, even though he IS 50 pounds.  I figure that equals 200 lbs of lifting when you add it all up.  Sounds like a lot to me.  Of course, since my husband John does all the lifting, I guess I don’t get brownie points for that.  Maybe I could lift some brownies.

So I took my uninspired writer-self down to the basement.  The man-cave, home of our treadmill.  I rarely use it because walking to nowhere, looking at the debris left here by my 20-year-old candidate for “Hoarders” is just too depressing.  But I felt particularly bovine today and therefore I was  inspired — I put a board across the handlebars and made the treadmill into a walking desk.

Damn, I’m handy!

Trouble is, walking makes my arms swing, so I am constantly knocking the laptop off the board.  Then I must lunge, while keeping pace with the treadmill, while grabbing at the laptop, wiping out any funny bits from my blog text.  I feel like George Jetson, in the old cartoon series.  You know that part in the credits where he’s walking his dog, and things don’t go according to plan?  With me and machinery they rarely do.

Which leads me to a question:

Of all the gadgets imagined by the Jetsons’ creators, how come only the ones that make us look stupid have been invented?  Where is my flying car?  Where can I get that talking Robot that cleans house?  And where the hell is that neat gizmo that turns frumpy Jane into glamorous Jane when Skype wants to take her picture for a video transmission?

I want one of those gadgets.  I’ll trade the treadmill for it.

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October 30, 2011 · 0:00

Costume choices, 2011

Driving back from my vacation in Maine this weekend,  I was trying to figure out what to be this year for Halloween.  There is nothing like a long, long drive to get the gears in your mind going.  And mine were whizzing all day!

There are the usual choices – a witch, a scarecrow, a nun.  There are the second rung choices like a bumble bee, a pirate, or since I just got back from New England, a pilgrim.  I stopped trying to be a princess when I was four years old.  That’s when I dressed as the most beautiful princess, walked out the door with my brother and my goodie bag, tripped over my princess dress and ended up face (and dress) down in a mud puddle.  I was not born to be a princess, and I did not work myself into the role.

But as I was thinking about this year’s costume, I happened to check out the New York Times, where there was an interesting column:  What the Costumes Reveal    by Joe Nocera.  And suddenly, I got a whole bunch of new costume ideas.

I could go as a horse’s ass!  I could go as a heartless bastard!  I could go as a housing foreclosure lawyer!

You see, Nocera’s column was all about the law firm of Steven J. Baum, a firm that specializes in housing foreclosures in the Buffalo, New York area.  They are a humorous bunch of folks, and they really know how to have a good time.  I’m just bummed that I wasn’t invited to their Halloween Party last year.  Because the employees — whose jobs it is to throw people out of their homes — were encouraged to dress up as homeless people!  Nocera’s column has pictures to show some of the more special costumes.  How spooky!  What a hoot!  Can you think of a better costume?

  

Photo Courtesy of the NY Times

Well I did.  This year, I am dressing up as “A Progressive Check Writer.”  I’ll do it by wearing my heart on my sleeve.  I’m going to double my regular annual donation to the organizations I normally support that help the homeless in the DC/NoVA area where I live.  And I’m going to send a matching one, in honor of the law firm of Steven J. Baum, to the Buffalo City Mission, whose job is a little busier thanks to the law firm of Steven J. Baum.

   Next year I’ll be a horse’s ass.  This year (and last) it’s been done.

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October 27, 2011 · 0:00

Sweet Reaper

I am no longer the Grim Reaper!  I may not yet be up there with Santa, but I can now say that I can give the Easter Bunny a run for her money.  Today I can pass on some really good news.

That’s not usually the case, you know.  It’s because I work in medicine, and I hear about everything that can possibly kill, maim, and/or injure you.  I know exactly what you should fear.  I know what produce is riddled with bacteria today, why you shouldn’t ever eat runny eggs or sprouts of any kind (I do anyway).   I know way more than I want to know.  And I always share with my friends and family.

They hate me.

But really, what would you do?  I try to temper it, tone it down, but, well, what if I don’t tell someone and something bad happens?  Fortunately, most people I know have my emails sent immediately to their SPAM folders, so I satisfy my need to tell and they satisfy theirs to ignore.  Everybody is happy.  Ish.

Finally today, I am able to pass on good news.  Sweet news.  The best.  Today I learned that candy is no worse for you than granola.  Yup.  It’s true.  They just try to make us feel guilty for sucking down those gummy, gooey sweets.  When I read the news,  I tore open a package of PopRocks, twisted the top off a Coke and celebrated.  Yahoo!  Crazy Man!  Outta site!  Groovy, even.

I am not talking about dark chocolate, here.  Folks have been trying to convert me to that crap for a decade.  “Oh, it’s healthy.”  Yeah right.  It tastes like dandruff.  Dark chocolate has all the sweetness of my 7th grade math teacher – the one who longed to return to the days when she could smack kids.  Keep your dark chocolate.  Gimme Skittles.  Gimme Dots.  Gimme Twizlers.  Give me that new mint Three Musketeers bar when I am pretending to have adult tastes.

Yes, today’s headline brought me the news that I could, on occasion, choose between granola and gummy bears without feeling guilty when the gummies win.

Next thing I know, there will be a news report that one three-pack of Peeps provides 100 percent of USDA recommended levels of 10 essential vitamins and minerals.

I can’t wait.

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