If I've complained about the lack of good service these days (sounding like a typical old codger), I just found a place where good manners and friendliness still rules. Granted, it's just a hotel restaurant--with prices only an expense account could love--but it counts.
The hotel is a Hyatt, and if Hyatt trains it's waiters, kudos to them. As soon as I picked up the little jar of orange marmalade and grimaced slightly as I tried to twist it open, the waiter came over and offered to do it. This happened twice, with two different waiters (and I like orange marmalade). As I was dining alone both times, the waiters chatted with me in a welcoming, non-obtrusive way. Service was quick--but not too quick--efficient, and accommodating.
No, I'm not writing a restaurant review here. I just wanted to describe the pleasant mood I was in after my experiences with the friendliest waitstaff, hosts, and busboys, even the one who addressed me as "Madam."
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Weighty issues
After staying at a healthy weight for a couple of years, I’ve put on some pounds again. Right around the hips and belly. That means my jeans are snug and even pants with an elastic-waist—yes, I admit to wearing some of those—fit but squeeze me in the gut when I sit down.
It’s really only a few pounds. Or, is it? I’m not brave enough to get on the scale. I’ll be weighed at our wellness screening at work in September, and with that a month off, I have time to lose the flab. At least that’s what I keep saying to myself, especially when ordering fries instead of fruit with my turkey burger.
Then there’s the issue of my gym attendance. I was doing admirably for some time—well, admirably for me, which means at least once a week, maybe twice. But I’ve gotten lazy and can find so many reasons not to go.
But I have a back-up plan. This may sound like pure rationalization, but I swear that I put in thousands of steps when I spend the afternoon shopping. I always park far away from the stores I’m visiting—mainly because I still think of my 2008 RAV4 as new and try to avoid dings. And I’m a fast walker. I’m also a slow shopper. Before making a purchasing decision, I have to look at practically everything available. That’s a lot of walking.
I’m also a fidgety person. You may laugh, but I did read somewhere that people who fidget burn more calories. If you don’t believe me, just type “fidgeting and weight loss” in your browser and you’ll see how many articles come up. (Most are years old, so a new theory may have replaced this one by now, but I’m sticking to this delicious wisdom.)
So these are my excuses for not walking laps around the track and doing reps on the hip abductor machine. I have a treadmill at home, and although I don’t hang clothes on it, it’s been in the upright (closed) position for at least a year. This is not my equipment of choice for exercise. (Nor was the recumbent bicycle we got rid of in the late 90s.)
Today was another afternoon of walking around the mall, after a hearty but healthy lunch with a friend at Stir Crazy. But still, the pants I tried on at three stores didn’t quite snap together at the waist. Or, if they did, they made my hips look like stuffed sausage. The good news is that when I tried a size larger (that is, the size I used to wear a few years ago), they were too big. So I’m not too far gone yet. It’s only a few pounds, and I can do it!
I hope this positive attitude lasts. In the meantime, I’m going downstairs to see if we still have pita chips I can snack on before dinner.
It’s really only a few pounds. Or, is it? I’m not brave enough to get on the scale. I’ll be weighed at our wellness screening at work in September, and with that a month off, I have time to lose the flab. At least that’s what I keep saying to myself, especially when ordering fries instead of fruit with my turkey burger.
Then there’s the issue of my gym attendance. I was doing admirably for some time—well, admirably for me, which means at least once a week, maybe twice. But I’ve gotten lazy and can find so many reasons not to go.
But I have a back-up plan. This may sound like pure rationalization, but I swear that I put in thousands of steps when I spend the afternoon shopping. I always park far away from the stores I’m visiting—mainly because I still think of my 2008 RAV4 as new and try to avoid dings. And I’m a fast walker. I’m also a slow shopper. Before making a purchasing decision, I have to look at practically everything available. That’s a lot of walking.
I’m also a fidgety person. You may laugh, but I did read somewhere that people who fidget burn more calories. If you don’t believe me, just type “fidgeting and weight loss” in your browser and you’ll see how many articles come up. (Most are years old, so a new theory may have replaced this one by now, but I’m sticking to this delicious wisdom.)
So these are my excuses for not walking laps around the track and doing reps on the hip abductor machine. I have a treadmill at home, and although I don’t hang clothes on it, it’s been in the upright (closed) position for at least a year. This is not my equipment of choice for exercise. (Nor was the recumbent bicycle we got rid of in the late 90s.)
Today was another afternoon of walking around the mall, after a hearty but healthy lunch with a friend at Stir Crazy. But still, the pants I tried on at three stores didn’t quite snap together at the waist. Or, if they did, they made my hips look like stuffed sausage. The good news is that when I tried a size larger (that is, the size I used to wear a few years ago), they were too big. So I’m not too far gone yet. It’s only a few pounds, and I can do it!
I hope this positive attitude lasts. In the meantime, I’m going downstairs to see if we still have pita chips I can snack on before dinner.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Pet peeve
Every now and then, I think about how nice it would be to have a dog. An adorable little one, like a Lhasa Apso or a Yorkie. I watch “Dogs 101” on Animal Planet to find out what qualities each breed has and which are suitable for an older couple who aren't too keen on frequent grooming. But I also watch “It’s Me or the Dog,” and the problems people face with their unruly pets should probably make me forget the whole idea.
And while most people were watching the Super Bowl this winter, I tuned in to “Puppy Bowl.” If you haven’t seen that alternative to the Big Game, it’s worth switching channels next year to catch a few minutes of it. (Don’t tell the diehard football fans at your party that I suggested it.)
The idea of getting a dog came to me as I watched my mother-in-law deal with widowhood. I’m not sure how she would have gotten along without her adorable apricot poodle, Baby. Not only was Baby a connection with my late father-in-law, but he was a reason to get up, go for walks, go to the vet and the groomer, and most of all, someone to talk to and play with.
We live in a townhome with a small, brick-paved patio. That means no opening the door and shooing little what’s its-name out to the yard to do its business. One of us would have to get dressed and walk the little ball of fluff—probably so little that it would have a small bladder and have to go more often. I see my neighbors on frigid days, hunkering into their parkas while their dogs sniff around the fir trees out behind our garages. That’s when I’m glad we’re dog-less.
I’ve considered a cat. But I’ve been there, done that, and I’m not sure I want to do it again. The scratches on the dining room table, the snagged drapes, the persistent smell in the green shag carpet because, we presumed, Oliver thought it was grass or chlorophyll litter. I have to admit, though, to reconsidering after watching “Cats 101,” and seeing all the beautiful breeds I never knew existed. But still…I like my furniture, and I’m not sure where I’d want to park the litter box.
For now, I’ll continue to admire sweet little pups and kitties and then quickly walk away before my I cave in to cuteness.
By the way, did I mention that my husband’s allergic?
And while most people were watching the Super Bowl this winter, I tuned in to “Puppy Bowl.” If you haven’t seen that alternative to the Big Game, it’s worth switching channels next year to catch a few minutes of it. (Don’t tell the diehard football fans at your party that I suggested it.)
The idea of getting a dog came to me as I watched my mother-in-law deal with widowhood. I’m not sure how she would have gotten along without her adorable apricot poodle, Baby. Not only was Baby a connection with my late father-in-law, but he was a reason to get up, go for walks, go to the vet and the groomer, and most of all, someone to talk to and play with.
We live in a townhome with a small, brick-paved patio. That means no opening the door and shooing little what’s its-name out to the yard to do its business. One of us would have to get dressed and walk the little ball of fluff—probably so little that it would have a small bladder and have to go more often. I see my neighbors on frigid days, hunkering into their parkas while their dogs sniff around the fir trees out behind our garages. That’s when I’m glad we’re dog-less.
I’ve considered a cat. But I’ve been there, done that, and I’m not sure I want to do it again. The scratches on the dining room table, the snagged drapes, the persistent smell in the green shag carpet because, we presumed, Oliver thought it was grass or chlorophyll litter. I have to admit, though, to reconsidering after watching “Cats 101,” and seeing all the beautiful breeds I never knew existed. But still…I like my furniture, and I’m not sure where I’d want to park the litter box.
For now, I’ll continue to admire sweet little pups and kitties and then quickly walk away before my I cave in to cuteness.
By the way, did I mention that my husband’s allergic?
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Murder She Watches ...and Watches
I’m ready to admit I have a problem and should get myself to a meeting of True Crime Addicts Anonymous (TCAA)—if only someone would establish such a group. I love, love, love true crime shows like: 48 Hours Mystery, Cold Case Files (the one narrated by Bill Kurtis, not to be confused with the overly dramatic, fictional show), Dateline, The First 48, Forensic Files, Notorious, and Snapped, to name a few.
I am drawn to stories about husbands who kill their wives and, sometimes, wives who kill their husbands. They always start out as a deliriously happy couple with their adorable children, pillars of the community and their church—and then, mayhem and murder. What I love most is the moment the DNA matches, an alibi falls apart, or a long-lost witness finds God and comes forward. Then, at last, the detectives nail the SOB! Sweet.
I have also read many books by Ann Rule, the former policewoman turned crime writer.
If there were a TCAA, here are the 12 steps I would probably have to go through, one by one:
1. I admit I am powerless over tuning into these programs. I’ve even watched reruns of 48 Hours Mystery and then watched them again when they became 48 Hours: Hard Evidence on cable.
2. I confess to watching particularly juicy stories, like the Scott/Lacy Peterson case over and over. I freely admit I have told myself I’m just going to see the part where Amber finds out what her seemingly single boyfriend was up to, but I keep watching anyway. I am sorry about this waste of time.
3. I solemnly swear I have no intent to murder my spouse and I’m not gathering ideas by watching these shows. I apologize to said spouse for making him nervous.
4. I promise to erase any memory of words like ethylene glycol and cholino-succinate and other sneaky poisons used in so many of these cases—and sometimes discovered only when, or if, the body is exhumed.
5. I apologize to any friend or family member who has called me during the last 15 minutes of one of these shows. I apologize too for my reaction at the first ring of the phone (“Who the hell can that be?”) and for saying, “I’ll call you back later,” when I do answer it.
6. I beg my husband for forgiveness for all the times I’ve shushed him when he’s tried to talk to me during the shows. (But, seriously, couldn’t he wait a few minutes for the next commercial break?)
7. I am sorry if I silently offended owners and operators of self-storage facilities, as well as those who rent the units. The only time I accompanied my husband to our newly acquired storage space, I shuttered as we walked past all those metal doors, wondering if any of them housed dead bodies sealed in oil drums. (I’ve seen quite a few episodes that end like this.)
8. I will make amends for all the food that overcooked or languished in the microwave while I stood in front of the TV waiting for the jury’s verdict.
9—12. I own up to the fact that I won’t take the time to declare the last four steps because I think an episode of Forensic Files comes on in a few minutes.
I am drawn to stories about husbands who kill their wives and, sometimes, wives who kill their husbands. They always start out as a deliriously happy couple with their adorable children, pillars of the community and their church—and then, mayhem and murder. What I love most is the moment the DNA matches, an alibi falls apart, or a long-lost witness finds God and comes forward. Then, at last, the detectives nail the SOB! Sweet.
I have also read many books by Ann Rule, the former policewoman turned crime writer.
If there were a TCAA, here are the 12 steps I would probably have to go through, one by one:
1. I admit I am powerless over tuning into these programs. I’ve even watched reruns of 48 Hours Mystery and then watched them again when they became 48 Hours: Hard Evidence on cable.
2. I confess to watching particularly juicy stories, like the Scott/Lacy Peterson case over and over. I freely admit I have told myself I’m just going to see the part where Amber finds out what her seemingly single boyfriend was up to, but I keep watching anyway. I am sorry about this waste of time.
3. I solemnly swear I have no intent to murder my spouse and I’m not gathering ideas by watching these shows. I apologize to said spouse for making him nervous.
4. I promise to erase any memory of words like ethylene glycol and cholino-succinate and other sneaky poisons used in so many of these cases—and sometimes discovered only when, or if, the body is exhumed.
5. I apologize to any friend or family member who has called me during the last 15 minutes of one of these shows. I apologize too for my reaction at the first ring of the phone (“Who the hell can that be?”) and for saying, “I’ll call you back later,” when I do answer it.
6. I beg my husband for forgiveness for all the times I’ve shushed him when he’s tried to talk to me during the shows. (But, seriously, couldn’t he wait a few minutes for the next commercial break?)
7. I am sorry if I silently offended owners and operators of self-storage facilities, as well as those who rent the units. The only time I accompanied my husband to our newly acquired storage space, I shuttered as we walked past all those metal doors, wondering if any of them housed dead bodies sealed in oil drums. (I’ve seen quite a few episodes that end like this.)
8. I will make amends for all the food that overcooked or languished in the microwave while I stood in front of the TV waiting for the jury’s verdict.
9—12. I own up to the fact that I won’t take the time to declare the last four steps because I think an episode of Forensic Files comes on in a few minutes.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
I've crossed over
I never thought I'd be saying this, but I'm typing this post on an Apple iPad! Me, the PC aficionado, who's had to listen to rhapsodic raves on the joys of owning an Apple product from my graphic designer husband, who's had to hear "You wouldn't have this problem with a Mac!" every time something crashed on my HP laptop...I have an iPad!
Typing is a challenge using the on-screen keyboard. What's not apparent here is that I've had to retype at least every other word. and when I want to add something so unusual (sarcasm alert) as an apostrophe, I need to click another screen for the rest of the keys. I can only hope that this learning experience is helping my aging brain ward off dementia.
The real reason for getting this extravagant gadget is that I want to be able to write while traveling. And I will--in between Boggle games (one of the first apps I bought).
Watch this space...
Typing is a challenge using the on-screen keyboard. What's not apparent here is that I've had to retype at least every other word. and when I want to add something so unusual (sarcasm alert) as an apostrophe, I need to click another screen for the rest of the keys. I can only hope that this learning experience is helping my aging brain ward off dementia.
The real reason for getting this extravagant gadget is that I want to be able to write while traveling. And I will--in between Boggle games (one of the first apps I bought).
Watch this space...
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Gainfully employed
It’s been 3-1/2 years since I downshifted to part-time work, and people often ask me why I continue to work at all. (These are usually people who have already retired and, I think, are looking for someone to play with—and by that I mean lunches, shopping, visiting.) My answer always begins with “There are three good reasons I’m still working.” At that point, those who asked just to be polite are starting to regret the effort.
Here are my three top reasons, not necessarily in order of importance. And, with luck, I’ll think of a fourth by the time I’m done.
1) I love the income stream. Not only am I receiving an hourly wage for my 21 hours per week (although no vacation, illness, or holiday pay), but the company is still contributing to my retirement account—and still allowing me to add my own funds to the supplemental retirement account. That’s golden, even “bleeping” golden… (sorry, Chicagoland readers; I’ve heard the Blago tapes so often, I’ve picked up the lingo).
With the up and down stock markets, the on-again, off-again recession, and just plain old uncertainly, I like the fact that I can bring in money almost as fast as I can spend it.
2) I enjoy the work, most of the time. I get to be imaginative in my approach to marketing natural gas industry training and conferences, and it's delightfully challenging. I write a monthly e-newsletter and the copy for our brochures, catalogs, ads, and web site and have a lot of creative freedom.
There are always tasks I don’t much care for, but they’re usually short-term. I can also turn down a high level of responsibility for an ongoing task I don’t like. When “but I’m only here three days a week” doesn’t get me out of it, mumbling “Maybe I’ll retire” usually does.
3) I love my colleagues. Or, I very much like most of them, but I truly love some of them. I enjoy gossiping with them, hearing their after-work stories, and, especially, telling my own day-off stories. And when it comes to the women, I like to see what they’re wearing. Most important of all, they’re fun to work with.
I haven’t yet thought of a solid fourth reason, but I do believe that if I were not working those three days, I would sleep too much, watch too much TV, shop way over my budget, and more often grab my husband’s iTouch to waste another hour playing Boggle.
Here are my three top reasons, not necessarily in order of importance. And, with luck, I’ll think of a fourth by the time I’m done.
1) I love the income stream. Not only am I receiving an hourly wage for my 21 hours per week (although no vacation, illness, or holiday pay), but the company is still contributing to my retirement account—and still allowing me to add my own funds to the supplemental retirement account. That’s golden, even “bleeping” golden… (sorry, Chicagoland readers; I’ve heard the Blago tapes so often, I’ve picked up the lingo).
With the up and down stock markets, the on-again, off-again recession, and just plain old uncertainly, I like the fact that I can bring in money almost as fast as I can spend it.
2) I enjoy the work, most of the time. I get to be imaginative in my approach to marketing natural gas industry training and conferences, and it's delightfully challenging. I write a monthly e-newsletter and the copy for our brochures, catalogs, ads, and web site and have a lot of creative freedom.
There are always tasks I don’t much care for, but they’re usually short-term. I can also turn down a high level of responsibility for an ongoing task I don’t like. When “but I’m only here three days a week” doesn’t get me out of it, mumbling “Maybe I’ll retire” usually does.
3) I love my colleagues. Or, I very much like most of them, but I truly love some of them. I enjoy gossiping with them, hearing their after-work stories, and, especially, telling my own day-off stories. And when it comes to the women, I like to see what they’re wearing. Most important of all, they’re fun to work with.
I haven’t yet thought of a solid fourth reason, but I do believe that if I were not working those three days, I would sleep too much, watch too much TV, shop way over my budget, and more often grab my husband’s iTouch to waste another hour playing Boggle.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Old friends are new again
There are still many simple pleasures in our seventh decade. The other day I had lunch followed by delightful shopping with a long-time friend. We first met when we were both back-to-college moms—I thought I might be the only older student there, and she probably thought the same. Then we were seated next to each other during a break one day and revealed our backgrounds. She had a daughter about 12 or so, a year older than one of mine. Since then, through the years, we’ve met for dinner or lunch occasionally. But our hectic schedules were out of sync, and months—years—would pass without any contact.
We connected again on Facebook (it does have its advantages), and started making plans to get together. She’s newly retired, and I’m semi-retired, so we felt like ladies of leisure when we met recently to have a slow-paced meal with more chatting than eating. Since my next “obligation” was a 3:00 hair appointment, I had time to show her my favorite shops, and we commiserated over all the expensive things we’d like to buy if only we could count on the stock market keeping our retirement funds intact. (Insert laughter here.)
We found it hard to believe that it was over 35 years ago since we were both wondering if we could blend into academic life after seeing our girls through their early years. Now, it’s as if we got reacquainted as very different people. We’re now grandmothers, we’ve pretty much run out of the energy we had when we were in our 30s and 40s. But with that energy also came some very low lows—tying our fragile self-esteem to what others did or said to us.
We’re not completely self-assured now. But we are comfortable. Sure, we commiserate over eyelashes that are getting skimpy, bags under our eyes that are getting baggier, and having to make that dreaded call to Medicare—the one in which you’re shouting into the phone “Enroll in Part B!” and the automatic system starts running a long spiel about Part D. But we’re also relaxed and happy that our daily commuting and work stress are behind us.
I wish I could end this with a funny line or twist, but I’m still basking in the glow of friendships—old and new.
We connected again on Facebook (it does have its advantages), and started making plans to get together. She’s newly retired, and I’m semi-retired, so we felt like ladies of leisure when we met recently to have a slow-paced meal with more chatting than eating. Since my next “obligation” was a 3:00 hair appointment, I had time to show her my favorite shops, and we commiserated over all the expensive things we’d like to buy if only we could count on the stock market keeping our retirement funds intact. (Insert laughter here.)
We found it hard to believe that it was over 35 years ago since we were both wondering if we could blend into academic life after seeing our girls through their early years. Now, it’s as if we got reacquainted as very different people. We’re now grandmothers, we’ve pretty much run out of the energy we had when we were in our 30s and 40s. But with that energy also came some very low lows—tying our fragile self-esteem to what others did or said to us.
We’re not completely self-assured now. But we are comfortable. Sure, we commiserate over eyelashes that are getting skimpy, bags under our eyes that are getting baggier, and having to make that dreaded call to Medicare—the one in which you’re shouting into the phone “Enroll in Part B!” and the automatic system starts running a long spiel about Part D. But we’re also relaxed and happy that our daily commuting and work stress are behind us.
I wish I could end this with a funny line or twist, but I’m still basking in the glow of friendships—old and new.
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