PEARLS & AMBER

RECIPE READING

Reading the recipes in Martha Stewart's magazine LIVING (January 2009), the recipe my eyes fell on first was:

HONEYED TOFU on UDON WITH CUCUMBER RIBBONS

Cutting to the chase, I read HONEYED RIBBONS.

I'm as much a vegan as you are, certainly more of a vegetarian than you'll ever be, and I can starve myself with the best, okay?  I know how to do liquid.

In my real life I also know what tofu is.  I even tried to feed it to my children back in those days when they actually were children.  The recipe suggested I fool the little darlings by frying the tofu and serving it with homemade ketchup.  "They'll think it's french fries."  What these people didn't know was MY children ate THEIR french fries with homemade mayonnaise, thank you very much, a holdover from those years I lived in Brussels...where people eat their french fries...nevermind.

I blanked on Udon...maybe it's Japanese lettuce or those bean things they give you while you are waiting for sushi?  One day I'll bestir myself to look it up, so that I'll know what I'm talking about the next time I am at a dinner party and the subject turns to udon.

I'm okay with cucumber, but not okay enough to eat it anymore.  I've put my time in with cucumber, and that time is over.

So, reading this recipe I was left with Honeyed Ribbon.

There is ribbon candy.  It shows up at Christmas, if it shows up at all.  Last time I had some was when I was five years old, and lived on Welcome Street in Peabody, Massachusetts.  And that was in what is now known as the last century.

Honey I eat every single day of my life, but would never add it to ribbon candy, which I recall was ghastly.  So, this recipe would not be happening for me.

I moved onto the next recipe:  Lamb Chops with Citrus Sauce and Baby Mache Salad.

Baby mache?  Paper Mache...Baby Sache...Mache Sache, for the closets....

KATHARINE HEPBURN ARMSTRONG FLOORS AD

Does this look like the kind of woman who gives a rats ass about wood flooring? 

Does this look like a woman who wants to see how she'd look now, if she were still forty-five, and not...gone to her reward?

Armstrong Floors seems to feel Katharine Hepburn is the perfect woman to sell their floors.  Their laminate flooring, that is.

See, they have a computerized picture of a live(ish) looking Katharine Hepburn, relaxing in a chair on one of their laminated floors.  It says "It only looks like the real thing."

The picture is a radiant Katharine Hepburn.  She'd be damned pleased about that.  No doubt about it.  No matter it was done by a computer.  Beauty is beauty.

She would NOT be pleased about the product she's been hauled back from the grave to hawk.  Laminate flooring?   Listen to that raspy sneer.

Katharine Hepburn was a true New England blue-blood.  Not only would she have had REAL wooden floors in her house, the floors would be scuffed and gouged and otherwise trod irrevocably upon by the ghosts of her and her family's past. 
There would be gouges so deep, one could lose a stiletto in them--
There would be crevices so high a ladder would be required to get out--
And--
They would be polished by hand, lovingly and often.

As a result, these real wood floors would be so softened by age and use, babies could sleep on them. 
And their fragrance would save marriages.

FROM CA IN THE MIDWEST TO WRITE ABOUT PARIS

I've come to Macomb, Illinois because I have a retreat here that I can retreat to, see.

I have a book to finish that is in piles all over the place.  This book is about Paris.

I won't go into why mine is going to be different...

I will say it is fabulous.  It is charming as hell.  And it'll never see the light of day if I don't DO SOMETHING.

So I have, as the picture implies, run screaming to this quiet place to pull the book together.

This place is Midwest countryside heaven.  Green.  Firefies at night.  Thunderstorms.  Fragrant.  Quiet.  A babbling brook.  Deer running through the back.  No kidding.  Cows, okay?  Dairy Queen is THE place in town.

I've left Southern California heaven.  Blue ocean.  Palm trees waving.  Bentleys all over the place, coming out from the mothballs, I guess, because is anyone actually buying them these days, even if they could?  Taco stands.  There is a Dairy Queen, but it's kind of a cute thing, not to be taken seriously. 

And it is the place where my life lives--  

Lives are distracting, so here I am, a Californian in Illinois, trying to write a book about Paris.

Just so you know.

WAR OVER CHOCOLATE BUNNIES

It's not even Easter, and already I am up in arms.

There is a battle in Europe over who has the right to make chocolate bunnies--
More specifically, can a company trademark their version of the chocolate bunny.

Lindt makes the cutest little rabbit, sitting on its haunches,wrapped in gold foil, ears on alert, wearing a red ribbon around it's neck, with a little bell attached to it.
Lindt sells indecent amounts of this calorie ridden, tooth decaying, hunks of nirvana.

An Austrian company called Hauswirth sells a chocolate bunny sitting on it's haunches, ears on alert, wrapped in gold foil, a red ribbon wrapped around it's neck, too.  There is no bell.

Lindt trademarked their bunny a few years ago.  Now they say Hauswirth can't make their bunny, because Lindt owns the style.

Hauswirth has taken umbrage and has hauled in lawyers who say the issue of trademarking 3D shapes has always been 'murky waters'.  Of course you can see why the minute you think about that, right?  I mean I know I was thinking about all those difficulties trademarking 3D shapes last night in the shower.

One of the difficulties the lawyers point out that to make a chocolate bunny like this certain things, like the long upright ears, have to be there for the shape to even sit properly...or something.

Do you get the drift?  I do.  But then, I am easily called to attention when to comes to chocolate bunnies.

Haiswirth is also pointing out that chocolate bunnies are generic, and who the hell does Lindt think they are even trying to restrict the production of chocolate bunnies, greedy pigs....or something to that effect. 
"Bad faith" in trademarking practices (like wanting a monopoly on those cute chocolate bunnies--improper conduct) is also being called into question here.

This is a serious issue.  Quantity of chocolate bunnies is being threatened here.

If Lindt gets to stop Hauswirth there will be that many fewer bunnies. 

Who the hell does Lindt think they are?  Someone needs to remind Lindt that they did not create the squatting bunny.  They did not invent gold foil.  They are certainly not alone in the chocolate making industry--

I'm shocked, just shocked, I tell you, over Lindt's greed--

Just picture the sight of the Lindt corporate bigwigs, ties askew, red in the face, nostrils bulging, in a state of cardiac arrest over chocolate bunnies.  THEIR chocolate bunnies, goddammit.  

THE MILLIONTH ENGLISH WORD

The millionth...I didn't even know 'MILLIONTH' was a spellable word...is

WEB 2.0

Does that look like a worthy enough word to be the millionth word in the English language?

With those numbers attached, does it even LOOK like a word?

To me it looks vaguely mathematical, which puts me right off it from the git go.

According to my on-line dictionary of choice it means:

"The second generation of the World Wide Web in which content is user-generated and dynamic, and software is offered that mimics desktop programs."

This isn't a definition.  This is a novel.

 'WEB 2.0' is also, for those of you firmly in touch with your Virgo tendencies, a noun.

Apparently it takes a word being used 25,000 times to become an actual dictionary worthy word.  Obviously 'Web 2.0' has pulled this off.

Luckily, for me anyway, there are worthy dissenters.  They are not going to take this lying down.  And, in fact, the web monitoring company, Global Language Monitor,  who made this pronouncement, is waffling, because it has been pointed out that the announcement of the millionth (there's that word again) word has changed often, and now a decision is made just as the president of the company's book, which deals with the millionth word project, is about to be published.

'Slumdog' was in close running.

I ask you--which looks like a real word-- SLUMDOG  or  Web 2.0.

O'HORTEN / NORWEGIAN MOVIES

It seems I have a penchant for Norwegian movies.  Given I'm a talker myself, and love nothing more than superfluous but extremely witty dialogue in movies, this is an unexpected development.
Because Norwegian movies are skimpy on dialogue.  I'm not sure what there is actually amounts to dialogue.

O'Horten is playing right now, and it is a fairytale come true, especially if you like trains, pipe smokers, snow, icy roads, fortuitous missed connections, love between two seventy year olds, a dog named Molly, and monosyllabic conversation.

It is one of those quietly gorgeous films in which the improbable happens over and over, in silent certainty.  I don't think bombastic amazement is a Norwegian thing.

As O Horten, a bachelor railroad engineer comes to grips with his honorable retirement, he smokes his pipe, covers the parakeet before leaving his apartment, and meets strangers with whom he is unexpectedly finding himself interacting.  He tries to sell his boat, he saves a dog, and rides with a man who claims to be able to drive blindfolded.  And he finally acknowledges where his heart truly must be, after a trip down a long ski jump.

See what I mean?  Magic!

I loved "O Horten" so much because I was prepared by having seen two other Norwegian movies--  "'Kitchen Stories" and "Elling".  Charmers, both.

But so, I then ran to Netflix, tapped in Norwegian and--  

"The Other Side of Sunday" is on the way.

I'm on to something, and it feels like Christmas.

THE POWER NAP

I just took a nap.  It was quick and to the point, lasting ten minutes.  I used my trusty eye bag, which is sage scented, and made of pale green silk.  (This eye bag goes everywhere with me.)

I have returned to work, after having first gone out to check on the chicken baking in the oven, and to eat one Chessman cookie, and am now back here, at my desk, toiling away.  Totally refreshed.

I just took what is called a POWER NAP.

Even though the words 'Power' and 'Nap' do not in any way belong near each other in a complete sentence, it seems that people these days cannot let a good thing lie, and the innocent nap, the short snooze, can no longer be something as simple as that. 

If one is living an insane life,the kind of life that includes huge amounts of over-scheduling and travel on jets, and rushing late to everything, one needs to take naps.
These frenzied, oops, I mean super competent people can't bear the idea that any activity of theirs be anything other than extremely important, so therefore they have re-named the 'catnap'.

So, I re-introduce you to your cat nap.  It is now the Power Nap.

May you rest in peace.

ENDANGERED FLY

I was looking at pictures of adorable endangered animals in Audubon and weeping.  They are such cute little things.  Especially as seen through the lens of a sensitive photographer.

I wept until I came to the fly known as the DELHI SANDS FLOWER-LOVING FLY.

Such an attractive fly the little guy was, lying there on his side, politely encouraged towards a certain drowsiness, a federally permited fly handler standing by making sure the little guy (gal?) was safe.  After all, there are so few of these flies left.  Under 1,000.  And where do they live?  They live in Southern California.  My back yard.

I don't like flies. 

My weeping ceased.  Why me? I asked the universe.  Is this a test?  To see just how committed I am to the ideal of saving each and every endangered species in the world?  If I can support the adorable Choctawhatchee Beach Mouse or the Pallis Sturgeon or the Guam Rail, why have I skidded to a halt over the Delhi Sands Flower-loving Fly. 

The fly (any kind of fly) isn't even supposed to exist in Southern California. There are some, but not the nuisance they are elsewhere.  To demonstrate how little a nuisance flies are, my fly swatter is very old, and in fact I don't even know where it is.  Or even if I actually have one.

But now I find there IS a bona-fide fly here in Southern California who is making waves, and I don't like it.  Even if there are only 1,000 of them left.  Even if the whole Delhi Sands eco-systems will disappear if they do.  Even if the area referred to is an hour away.

I don't like myself for this.  I need to reframe the scenario.  I need to like the fly.  I need to feel its pain.  I need to feel love for all God's creatures.  Right now.

I look at the photo of the drugged fly (bearing in mind the fly handler).  I note its large green jowls.  I see its legs are spindly and unshaven.  I look for its eyes.  I don't see any eyes, unless, god forbid, those green jowls are the eyes.  But the eyes are closed, right, because the fly is unconscious.  So...the green could be the creature's eyelids?

Emerald green eyelids.  I used to wear an emerald green eye shadow...I think it was in the eighties--
I'm looking at a fly who wears make-up.

I feel less animosity towards the fly.  It's endangered, for god sake.  If we don't do something, this little gal may soon be gone, never to be seen again--
And such a beautiful shade of green would be darkened forever.

Tears threaten-- 

I reach for the Kleenex.

SCENT OPERA IS HERE!

I read the Wall Street Journal because I need to know these things.

Coming up is an opera which will feature live scents, all through the action.  A small canister of spray, attached to your seat, called a 'scent microphone', will intermittently emit a spray of smells orchestrated with the music, relating to the action of stage.

Some of the smells will be good.  Some will be bad...I do worry about the bad ones, specifically described as real 'stinkers'.  But some of the scents, such as the one used for 'earth' which includes moss, beet and patchouli, I find I am tantalized by, in spite of myself.

The spray will shoot out for sixteen seconds, enveloping the smeller/listener/viewer of the opera, thereby involving them more completely into the...er...moment.

Apparently hotel chains and casinos and such have experimented with using scents unsuccessfully before.

But this goes further, with more technical knowledge and determination.  The opera will debut at the Guggenheim, which seems an...encouraging way to do it.

I go to the opera once every ten years whether I need it or not.  I choose the opera by the venue at which it is playing.  I am particularly fond of the opera house in Brussels, as well as the opera house in Chicago.  The one in Brussels has box seats and velvet drapery to die for.  And the one in Chicago has a ladies room with the most gorgeous yellow cabbage rose wallpaper I have ever seen...or at least it did fifteen years ago.

I do have favorite operas--Carmen and Madam Butterfly--but basically I don't like opera because I can't abide listening to dying sopranos bellowing out their distress, prone on the floor.  Which is what happens at the end of most, if not all, operas.

Spare me--

Except now--an opera where one will be diverted from the distressing story by scents blowing out, at the appropriate moment, to further involve the opera lover quietly weeping in their seats.

It has taken one Christophe Laudamiel, a high-end perfumer, two years to develop the twenty-three scents to be used.  The name of the opera is "Green Aria'.  It is about the struggle between Nature and Industry...I will try to ignore that, because--

One of the scents smells like caramel with hints of leather and black cherry.

I can taste it.

NOW HIRING

Every time I drive by a local movie theater called Edwards Big Fancy Five or something, I scan the list of movies.

And every time the same thing happens.

I read:

X-Men Origins:Wolverine
Angels and Demons
Management
The Soloist
Sunshine Cleaning

and

Now Hiring.

And every single time my eyes bug out in hopeful surprise--

NOW HIRING???

I haven't heard of it.  Wow.  A movie I haven't heard of.  This is either very good news, or...not.

NOW HIRING.  I cast about for any hidden piece of info I might have heard and failed to take note.  I wonder how long it's been out.  And I wonder again, how it is I haven't heard of it.  I start salivating--

This thought process takes one second.

And then, like every other time I drive by this abysmal theater, my heart drops.  I experience dashed hopes.  Then, yet once again, I admonish myself for being taken in.

But now I'm thinking--hey wait a minute.  I should go into that place and admonish them.  Who do they think they are using their public billboard to advertise a job?  Like all the time.

And why, for that matter do they always need to be hiring?  Can't they keep their personnel?  Are they lousy employers?

Give me freedom from awareness of their problems with personnel, I say.

And give me the new Johnny Depp movie, like yesterday.

RITZ CRACKERS R IN?

I loved Ritz Crackers...once upon a time.  Like 1966...and even then croissants were beginning to take over.  Whole wheat honey nut bread was emerging.

I went to an African/Cuban wine tasting, Women's Club of Laguna Beach, CA. happening last night, and there sat:

Platter after platter of Ritz crackers.

Somehow I just know there are more appropriate crackers to serve for a wine tasting.

There are certainly more appropriate crackers to put out for that fulsome African/Cuban music.

There are more appropriate crackers to eat for any reason.

I didn't even know they still made Ritz Crackers.  Although since Twinkies are still sold, I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised.

I ate some.  My friends ate some.  We all agreed that the Ritz crackers weren't as bad a choice as say barbecued potato chips.  We also told ourselves this was a fun trip down memory lane, but I noticed we each ate only one.  I noticed the platters themselves were barely touched.

With nine thousand types of crackers in the grocery stores, I wonder what taste decision went on behind the scenes.  Somebody knew of a warehouse load about to be tossed?

Maybe the wine was sub par too.  I don't know.  I'm a water-guzzler.  But, now I wonder.  Surely a posh little place like Laguna Beach, California can do better than Ritz crackers...unless the wine was Boone's Farm--

Is Boone's Farm still sold?

Don't tell me.  I still haven't recovered from the way they added sugar to the packet of Kool-Aid. 

Remember, pre sugar, the blisters from licking the soul satisfyingly pungent Kool-Aid particles off the palm of your hand?

Fabulous, right?

The Ritz crackers weren't.

MISS CALIFORNIA - OOPS!

 Whoa!  Do I feel sorry for Miss California.

It's got to be SO embarrassing, having been caught out in the 'Nude Pictures Surfacing from Long Ago' ongoing titillation in our oh so puritanical but wish-we-were-hip country.  Right?

I mean, I know YOU certainly have never ever ever ever ever let anyone AT ALL, take a picture of your with your breasts bared. 

Not even a self-portrait, where you could take the pictures over and over getting the shading just right, the drapery almost closed, the pink rouge brushed right next to the shadow and glossy sheen, so that in the end, after five thousand tries you ended up with a picture you maybe showed to the favorite cat.

Certainly you will never find a nude picture of ME surfacing out of the blue, oops, where there is even a hint of nudity.

I'm not even trying to be Miss California or the next Jayne Mansfield or even Mrs. Playboy Bunny, and even I know to DELETE IMMEDIATELY ALL material I would never ever ever ever want to appear anywhere, even two hundred years after my ...er...passing.  

I lost my camera a month ago.  God knows how or where.  I also lost, therefore, the memory card.  And the first thought that leapt into my mind were those nude photos I'd taken in that shadowy boudoir in Paris, that rainy day when I was stuck in the apartment, and yes, a trifle bored.

The second thought was the crystal clear memory of having pressed that delete button.

The DELETE button--It pays to know how to use it.

IN-N-OUT BURGER

I used to eat In-N-Out burgers driving in my car.  At that time they were a mid-afternoon snack.  And no, I wasn't a teenage boy.  I was simply a Southern California teenager, and that is what we did--

We ate In-N-Out burgers in our cars.  For afternoon snacks.

They were THE BEST HAMBURGER in the world.  Even better than Tommy's on Rampart.

Why were they the BEST HAMBURGER in the world?

They were a mess to eat.  Grease ran down your arms to your elbows.  The paper trying to contain the luscious mess was soaked and falling apart by the end.  There was so much glop even the burger itself had to gulp for air.

I am an American, see, and in case the current generation of delicate hamburger eaters has forgotten, or never knew, (check out "Real Hamburgers") hamburgers are to be judged by the sheer volume of glop.

IN-N-OUT burgers provided just that.  Sheer volumes of glop.

There is a book coming out about the history of In-N-Out, and all the "scandal" behind this company is laid out .  No one who actually eats In-N-Out will care.  I doubt this book will sell five copies.

BUT, it brought up the horror I experienced upon my return to CA from the East Coast, a few years ago.  The first place I headed was...you know.  With a friend.  And without thinking...I was still jet lagged, I let him order.

And was appalled, I tell you, APPALLED, by what I got.  What showed up was a hamburger wrapped in iceberg LETTUCE.

Lettuce?  Iceyuckberg?  Not even romaine, or even seaweed?  Arugula?  Bibb?  Butter?

Okay, who's bright idea was that?  Is this the greening of junk food?  Who are they kidding?

Not only was the thing wrapped in lettuce, which is a useless item of food to begin with.   Spare me the 'but it's fiber'.  If you want fiber, eat psyllium husks or refried beans and call it a day, for god sake. 

But the hamburger wasn't even greasy.  It wasn't full of glop.  It didn't require ten napkins.

And the worst of all was we ate these monstrosities, sitting INSIDE, trapped in a hideous ode to white tiles, the odor of chemical cleansers, and overhead fluorescent lighting.  Fork and knife provided.

I could have cried.  I was rude to the friend who just naturally thought I was evolved enough to be okay with lettuce instead of bun.

This book has called to that hurt deep within.  So I'm thinking maybe I should give In-N-Out another chance.  Maybe grease was having an off day that day. 

Of course I'll order it WITH bun, and then I'll eat in the car at 3:30 in the afternoon.

AIR FORCE ONE, TAKE ONE

Don't get me started on the military(ish) need for SECRECY, calling a frilly photo op a MISSION, or, the total disregard for consideration of the human psychological frailties.

Of course I'm referring to the recent incident of a huge jet flying way too low over New York city, whose citizens are the ones who bear the scars of actually being present for the 9/11 disaster.

I refer to a little something know as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  You and I may have experienced such a phenomena after, say, being in a minor car accident, and finding ourselves jumping at a leaf hitting the windshield ever thereafter.

The lack of care for fellow human beings is appalling.  And I doubt the men in charge, to this moment, really understand what the fuss is all about.  Maybe karma will open their eyes later.

I am sure there is a need for yet one more photo of Air Force One.  Right?  Definitely a huge need, for somebody of other....

Well, one writer, a voice of wisdom, wrote to the LA Times.  She had a one word for this conundrum. 

PHOTOSHOP.

BYE BYE CAFETERIA TRAYS

It has been brought to my attention by an article in the New York Times that cafeteria trays are going the way of ocean liners.

I never like to hear something is going away.  I have a strong sense of nostalgia.  I moved a lot when I was a kid.  It's my parents fault--

But cafeteria trays?  I am very okay with this.  I hate cafeteria trays.  I've always hated cafeteria trays.  The fact I have a tray in my hand, and I am putting a plate of food on it, signifies to me I'm stuck at school somewhere, and this is never a good thing.

Other negatives?

Big plastic cups filled with Coca Cola and Sprite slide off at the slightest tilt. 

Following the defiant four year old determined to carry his own tray full of plastic dishes is heart attack time.

Emptying the thing into an overflowing trashcan is a lesson in futility. 

And the look of them.  Ghastly.  Institutional.  College kids must adore their departure.  Such a downer, those trays.  Such a reminder that they are no longer eating Mom's cooking.  Now, with those nasty, water consuming items removed from their sight, our precious college kids' moods will improve--

This means their grades will go up.  This means fewer calls home asking for money--

And in the end, this means (dare I say it?) that COLLEGE DEGREE, clutched in a triumphant hand no longer sullied by a cafeteria tray.

the ATLANTIC MONTHLY

I just finished reading a very long article in the Atlantic.  Surprising myself, because my attention span isn't what it once was. 

I'm liking this new realization that my attention span...isn't.  I am one of the fashionable crowd.  I am ADD.  My daughter, who is a law student, therefore she knows these things, diagnosed me.

Yes, I've felt a lot better ever since because I know the NEW WAYS of communication are just right for me.  I don't need to cluck or wring my hands, and wonder what happened to the good old days.

I am referring to short blogs, short e-mails, short texts (as in texting), which all leads to short arguments, short meals, short hikes into the wilderness, short bouts of unhappiness, despair, and yearning, and therefore less shock with those all too short bouts of happiness, hope and gratification.

The Atlantic used to be called The Atlantic Monthly.  Then they modernized...redesigned?  Anyway, the powers that be apparently told them that in these times people have NO attention span.  Therefore such an unwieldly name had to go.

Hence, 'The Atlantic Monthly' became 'the ATLANTIC'.  Yes.  The 'the' is in small letters.  However, no one seems to have told them that long articles are OUT.  The mag is filled with endless pieces.  Even the book reviews are short story length.

Endless works, for me, if it's funny.  Dry humor works too.  The article I read was wry.  So I stayed until the end.

But SHORT IS IN.

So, this entry is done.

DUST OFF THE ROLLS

I've never seen so many Rolls Royces out and about here in the OC. 

This is the  newest battle cry-- 

Quick!  While it couldn't be more politically incorrect--

Quick before the Peta of the automotive world regroup and buy that paint and stake out the VIP parking at the mall--

Quick before your grand kid comes to visit from college, a freshly minted humanitarian, vegan and chess player who'll keel over in horror--

Quick before you forget where you put the keys, how to drive the thing, or even care--

Quick!  Do something you've never done before in your privileged life, never been allowed to do in your privileged life, maybe never even wanted to do--

Flaunt your $$$$$!  Flaunt them big time while others are too cowed to drive even the Hummer in public, let alone send the kids to camp via first class.

Dust off the Rolls, don't even try to remember which husband or grandfather gave it to you, praise the powers that be, and drive that thing out of the garage, down the road, heading East, like you don't have a care in the world--

Because maybe you don't. 

Somebody's gotta do it.

INTERMISSION

This story is older than the hills--

I HAVE A NEW COMPUTER.

Make that I HAVE A NEW MAC.

I have also initiated a few minor changes in my SCHEDULE, thank you very much...

And am now blowing feebly in the wind.

My cat Molly knows all about it, and she is praying to her CAT IN THE SKY for me to rise to the challenge, get over myself, and start living large again--

Which would make it so much easier to be around me.

I promise to do better.

Even though I can see that new Mac sneering at me, just setting me off my feed big time.

I'll take a deep breath.  

I'll go outside and breathe.  It's Sunday.  A day of rest.  This is no day to be cursing at the new Mac. 

This is no time to become enraged over the use of the word 'cookies', whatever the hell they are.

Tis the time to let my cat out.

And me too.

PLAY TIME

"There is a serious need for play" according to Scientific American Mind.

I love Scientific American Mind.  This magazine is for those of us who know it is necessary to know scientific things, but realize our ability to understand scientific jargon to be limited.

I am playing, therefore, when I read this magazine.  I sit outside, should it be warm enough, sipping ice tea with lime, and look at the pictures avidly.

This article shows a grown man (albeit one, I suspect, younger than my own son, thereby making it difficult for me to see him as the grown man the editors of this magazine wish me to), wearing a suit and tie, on his knees, playing with building blocks.

He is having such a fun time.  He's probably on lunch break, and he is so happy and childlike and caught up in what he's doing that he obviously won't worry about messing the crease in his trousers.

The editors have a list of suggestions as to how to play, should you be one of those adults who doesn't know how to play-- 

I wonder if they worried one may not know how to play as an adult, or they really believe there are grownups out there who honestly couldn't figure out how to play even if a gun was to their head.

I won't argue the point.

I just know when I read the list of suggestions, I felt totally superior, because this list didn't mention swing sets or building blocks, or my other favorite (a habit that took me through the first three years of my children's lives), coloring books and crayons.

It mentioned Body play, Object play and Social play.

Obviously they meant sex, shopping and partying.

But that's not play.  That is appropriate adult behavior, which not the point of this article at all.

 

.

AUTODIDACT

An autodidact is one who is SELF-TAUGHT.

Always having hated school, I am instantly attracted to this word.  I'm attracted to the sound of this word, and needless to say, its meaning.

It doesn't sound like what it means.  It sounds dictatorial.  It sounds didactic.  I'm sure 'didactic' is related, although I think of being didactic as being bossy and rigid, rather than quietly learning things for oneself.

But so when I feel I'm letting myself off the hook by learning things on my own, rather than subjecting myself to a didactic teacher, I now can describe the course I wish to follow, the path I wish to go down, the trip to the bookstore and library and Internet I wish to take as being due to the fact that I am being autodidactic.

I've been called a lot of things in my life, but never this. 

I may wish to send out a tidy announcement to friends and foes, informing them that they may add to their list of things they can call me, should the need arise.  AUTODIDACTIC.

Feel free to do the same.