The calm (and joy) before the storm

I haven’t had much to complain about lately (knock wood and pooh, pooh)—except the end of summer and inevitable coming of winter. And I’ve even experienced an exhilarating Labor Day weekend (despite thinking about the fact that the days are getting shorter, the leaves will be falling off the trees, rain will become snow, and….). But back to the present and my high-serotonin weekend:

On Saturday, we celebrated my son-in-law’s birthday, which meant I was able to spend some time with him and my daughter and, of course, my 6-year-old grandsons. I love them more than I can describe, but after a few hours of ear-splitting shrieks and their usual shenanigans, I was ready to retreat. But it was a good visit, and I was smiling on the way out.

On Sunday morning, we met with a beloved high school friend and her husband, who were in town for a wedding. Not only did we get to spend a few hours with this delightful couple, we also walked around Millennium Park—my first time there, embarrassing as it is to admit.

We had tickets to Million Dollar Quartet for Sunday afternoon. I was prepared to like it because of the nostalgic music and the great reviews I’d read. Like it? It was amazing. The intimate theater rocked with some of the best singing, playing, and acting I’ve experienced in a long time. I’d go to see it again, but given the hundreds of shows I haven’t yet been to, it would be impractical—and expensive.

On Monday, we enjoyed barbecued steakburgers on the deck of our dear friends in Lincoln Park. An eating frenzy was followed by a walk around the beautiful neighborhood and satisfying gossip.

The weather cooperated for the whole weekend, so everything we did outside was doubly enjoyable. How lucky am I to have had such a full and joyful Labor Day holiday! I’m truly grateful.

And now I can go back to whining about something-or-other, as soon as the glow wears off.

Irresponsible me

I don’t text while driving (or ever) or use my cell phone in the car (unless I’m waiting for a slow freight train to pass). I don’t polish my nails, put on mascara, eat breakfast (except for an occasional granola bar), or read the newspaper while behind the wheel. But I’m guilty of distracted driving because…I THINK.

What do I think about? It can be anything, from wondering if the shoes I have on really go with these pants or if my darling grandsons liked their first day of school. Sometimes it’s as involved as figuring out how much I can earn if I roll over a CD at the going rate of…oh, about 0% interest (or just a tad above).

I’m not sure I could get myself to break this hazardous habit—the one that makes me drive past the street where I was supposed to turn, forget that I wanted to go to Trader Joe’s and not Dominick’s, and otherwise mess with my directional competency.

Another, less threatening hazard caused by thinking while driving is my inability to remember what brilliant idea I’ve come up with by the time I get where I’m going.

The only way to stop the good, bad, and ugly thoughts from intruding on my driving is to meditate—a practice probably not recommended by driving instructors or cops. Chanting “om” or “dri-i-i-ve” might clear my brain, but the downside might be a deep, relaxing sleep, also not recommended by driving instructors—and cops.

So I’ll continue to stay off the cell phone and obey the Rules of the Road. But don’t mess with my divergent, but important, thoughts. (Wait! I had a great idea for the ending of this blog post while coming home from Walgreen’s this morning. What the heck was it?)

Fershtay*?

My Yiddish is returning in my old age—although I never knew it much in the first place. Growing up, I understood enough Yiddish to realize that my mother was talking about me to one of her sisters or that she was discussing something that my youthful ears weren’t supposed to hear. I could usually get a good idea of the subject matter with the handful of words I knew.

But as I became an adult, began my career (where the Jew to gentile ratio has always been about 5:250), and traveled to far-away places, my vocabulary didn’t include Yiddish words beyond schlep.

In later life, I married for the second time, and my current and, I hope, forever husband is a Protestant, with no particular denomination affiliation. That means he’s a WASP and has little experience with a boisterous ethnic group. His relatives are lovely people, intelligent and sufficiently irreverent that we have a great deal in common and get along well. By now, my husband has become used to the in-your-face aspect of my family and Jewish friends. He enjoys it, or so he says.

What does this have to do with the return of my little-used Yiddish? As soon as I married him, I began to think in terms of the most colorful Yiddish words. Sometimes words pop out of my mouth unintentionally, when I haven’t thought about them in decades. Other times, they come to mind, but it's when I’m talking with non-Jewish acquaintances, so I’m forced to search for another word. But Yiddish words and expressions hit the mark like no others. Doesn’t farmisht describe the situation so much better than confused? And there’s no better way to reject something than by crossly uttering feh!

Recently, these words came to mind in place of their common—and expected—English ones:

• Mishegas when something is crazy, mixed up, especially when considering someone else’s emotional baggage.

• Nu, when waiting for an answer (instead of So?)

• Shpilkes, when I try to describe the driver who can’t stay in one lane for more than two seconds and has to weave in and out to get one car length ahead. He can’t sit still!

• Geshrey, when plain old scream doesn’t describe the sound that comes from the depth of the soul.

My husband likes to hear Yiddish words and learn what they mean. But when he tries to repeat one, he mispronounces it. I haven’t found many non-Jews who can say kvetch (to complain) in one syllable. Try it. Ask a non-Jewish friend or colleague (preferably one who hasn’t spent years surrounded by Jews) to say the word. It’s usually “ka-vetch.” Most can’t figure out how the k and v sounds can come out as one.
*Fershtay? It means “Do you understand?” It’s just not the same, is it?

A bit of Southern (California) charm

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."

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.

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?

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.