Carrie On

Let’s just say it’s been a tough week.

Carrie Fisher’s death, followed by that of her mom, Debbie Reynolds, crushed me.

Not so much because Ms. Fisher was Princess Leia. In fact, it had little to do with her work as an actress and everything to do with who she was as a person.

I’m a big reader, so it’s no surprise I’m a fan of Carrie Fisher’s writings, both “fiction” and memoir. She was so outrageous, so witty, and when I lecture my son about every word being gold, I can think of her and say, “yes, she knew.”

My favorite Carrie Fisher book is Wishful Drinking. But I enjoyed the others, too. She had a laser-sharp tongue, which she used to cut through the Hollywood B.S. Much of her charm could be attributed to the fact that she was so honest about herself, describing situations in her life that would incinerate anyone else, but which she turned into a series of dark comedic scenarios that had me laughing and crying at the same time.

I will miss hearing about her life and adventures. When you know that much about what a person has endured – and triumphed over – when they leave this world, their loss is yours, too.

And so, I add Carrie Fisher to the guest list of women I’d like to share a meal with in the next life. I will put her at the head of the table, sit back and savor every word.

Here’s to you, old friend I never met. 

I hope I have that privilege in another time and space.

Christmas Ale

Mr. Ginley: Why is there a six-pack of beer under the Christmas tree?

Me: It was one of my Christmas presents.

Mr. Ginley: Whaaaa?

Me: What's the big deal? I was 18 at the time, so I was legal.

Mr. Ginley: Your parents got you a six pack of Genesee Cream Ale for Christmas?

A discussion ensued about the appropriateness of this particular gift. I said it was on my list, and no, I didn't think my parents were encouraging me to be an alcoholic. I just liked beer.

This segued, naturally, into a discussion about what else I received for Christmas. My memory was jogged by a photograph in which I was holding up a stuffed tiger and sporting brand new yellow slippers. Nothing too crazy there.

By that time, my sister had married, so it was just my brother Paul and me.

And what did he get? Well, it was the year before he got the Kan Klip, a device to hold his collection of pop cans. Which he kept in the garage, and which my dad, on more than one occasion, had toppled trying to get into the car to go to work (at 6:00 a.m.)

Although Paul would know better than I, his booty no doubt included a box of Cap'n Crunch.

I was interrupted here by Mr. Ginley, who said, "Let me get this straight. Your parents bought your brother cereal for Christmas?"

Yep. My mom refused to purchase the sugar-laden breakfast bonanza on a regular basis, not because it could rot your teeth from 50 paces, but because it was so expensive. Thus, it was a treat my brother enjoyed once (maybe twice -- birthday?) a year.

All of this made my husband's holiday gifts (socks and underwear, a winter coat, one banana bike) appear normal by comparison. This seemed to please him. In any family, normal is good.

This year, as I sit gazing at our own little tree, I'll be visited by many ghosts of Christmases past. I'll marvel at my mom's ability to decorate the house, bake cookies, and manage gift giving for a brood of six (later expanded to include many grandchildren). I'll toast my dad, who wrangled with a live tree for years, cursing under his breath and badgering us until he stood it up as straight as it could be, its worst flaws hidden in the corner. I'll imagine my parents sitting on the couch, armed with cups of coffee, watching us unveil our loot. I'll think about the early days of squirming through 6:30 a.m. mass -- we had to wait until afterward to open our presents. And the wrapped presents cascading from under the tree. Not high-priced mega gifts, but lots of this and that, enough to create wonder and anticipation.

Cheers to my siblings, nieces and nephews who've shared the holidays with me. And to my husband and son, who make the here and now merry every day.

And to my mom and dad, who live always in my heart. Wish you were here. No Genesee Cream Ale required -- I'm not much of a beer drinker anymore.

But I'm pretty sure Paul misses his Cap'n Crunch.

Merry Happy Christmas Festivus Hanukkah Kwanzaa Holiday to one and all!

Pressing Matters

I find ironing cathartic.

The Sprinkler

When I'm in the mood. And I have the time. And it doesn't involve pleats.

There's something about smoothing out wrinkles that feels therapeutic. The steam, the iron gliding across the surface of the material, is a kind of magic.

If I didn't have steam, like my mom in the early days of her shift, I probably wouldn't like it so much. She had an elephant sprinkler that she filled with water to wet the clothes. Mom spent hours every week pressing clothes and sheets and handkerchiefs. She welcomed the age of permanent press with glee.

By the time I reached junior high school, my siblings and I were wearing clothes that didn't require pressing. And sheets no longer needed an iron. So her weekly routine was mostly about my dad's work shirts. His job as a purchasing agent required him to wear a dress shirt and tie every day. By that time, handkerchiefs had been replaced by tissues, which were far more sanitary. Although, in my memory, it seems my dad still carried a hanky in his pocket for quite some time after they went out of fashion. And handkerchiefs continued to be a staple Christmas gift from my grandmother. (My mom kept the unopened boxes in a dresser drawer for years.)

These days, Mr. is the one who does the lion's share of ironing in our house. He cranks up Bowie and presses on. I know it's not his favorite thing to do, but he does a fine job. Alas, I am not as meticulous as he. While I love the way the imperfections on the surface of the fabric magically disappear, I know that most days I'm going to be one big wrinkle before I get halfway through my workday. I'm just a slob that way.

Oh well.

I imagine that one day in the not-too-distant future, ironing will go the way of the 8-track tape player. That wash and wear, even with shirts, will become de rigueur.

And future generations won't take the time to smooth away the wrinkles. 

Comfort and Joy

We ordered Pippo from a local bookstore when my son was about three years old.

Tom and Pippo is a series of books by Helen Oxenbury. Gentle, sweet but very boy-like. Tom is the lad in the stories and Pippo is his plush monkey. Tom and Pippo go for a walk, hang out on the beach, make a mess, and do all of the things little boys and their first friends are wont to do.

When we first saw Pippo, he was part of a display, and the saleslady said we would have to order him through the store from someplace in England. Which we did. And gave to our son for Christmas(?) or his birthday(?) -- I can't remember which. But the connection was immediate.

Pippo went everywhere with us. There were a few close calls. The time he was rescued after falling at the science museum. In Columbus, when he was left behind at my sister's house -- fortunately, she drove like the wind and caught up with us at the library before we left town.

One of my favorite stories is when my son was still young enough to take an afternoon nap -- which he always needed but still loathed. We listened at the foot of the stairway as he talked to his friend:  "Daddy and Mommy are mean, Pippo. You're the only one who loves me."

Originally, Pippo had velcro on his hands, presumably so he could hug better. But the velcro wore off, and his hands became tattered, requiring me to add "gloves" to cover the worn spots. Aside from that (and countless washings), Pippo has earned the love-worn work he sports today.

Along with a menagerie of other plush pals, Pippo slept with our son every night for many years. But Pippo was always #1 in the hierarchy. When the sad day came and Pippo was no longer required at bedtime, he moved to the top of our dresser where he resides to this day.

I find myself saying good morning or goodnight to him. And telling him we love him.

And yes, I believe. That a stuffed monkey can have a soul. Just a little one. To give a small boy such comfort and joy.

And his parents, too.

Giving Us the Bird

For the first time in many years, we spent the Thanksgiving holiday away from home.

A Neighborhood Fairy Door

Our friends, Lisa and John (and son Karl), invited us to join them in Ypsilanti. We had been trying to settle on a date to pay a visit, so this seemed like a very good opportunity.

Upon our arrival, we were greeted by Ruffles, their middle-aged pooch, who was disappointed that we didn't remove our footwear. As we witnessed later on, he has a shoe fetish, and will claim your loafer as his own, snapping it up and carrying it off to his "den" under the chair.

The other pet resident is a cat named Ruthie, who spent most of her time hiding from us. But that's okay, we're used to persnickety feline behavior.

After watching lots of football on TV, their neighbor arrived. An earlier conversation in which parsley exchanged hands revealed that she was going to be on her own because she had to stay home to nurse her cat, who had been involved in a vicious fight with another animal of some sort. Then John's mother arrived, and we were ready to roll.

The food, prepared mostly by John, was amazing. It was nice to have a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. I seldom have turkey because my guys don't like it much. But Mr., in spite of his meh attitude toward the bird, had more than one helping. Which gives you an idea of the quality of the cooking.

Unfortunately, my kid wasn't able to make the trip, and that was really the only sad thing for me about the day. As a consequence, Mr. made a point of teasing Karl mercilessly...Karl is a few years younger than Joe, and he was a good sport about putting up with the robust ribbing. Fortunately, he is an avid Ohio State fan, so he and Mr. got on famously.

We didn't want to inconvenience our hosts, so we spent the night at a nearby Red Roof, and met up with Lisa the next morning. The original plan was to head into Ann Arbor to shop. But we never made it out of Ypsilanti. Lisa insisted that we visit a store called The Rocket. We spent a lot of time (and several clams) in that establishment, before we continued with our battle cry of "shop local." No malls for us on Black Friday.

Once we had exhausted the shops in the area, we had lunch at a place called The Crossroads, which is right next to the train tracks. The food was yummy, and we toasted our buns by the fire as we ate. After driving us around her town and pointing out the various areas of note, we went back to the house to pick up our car and head home.

Sometimes when life gets crunchy and you think all the good has been sucked out of it, you get invited to your friends' table to share an amazing meal. And you realize there are still lots of good folks out there. It was a nice reminder on the traditional day to give thanks.

And...we've been invited back next year. So I guess we were okay guests!

P.S. The fairy doors were Über cool!

Discoveries

I've discovered that you're never done discovering.

Last week, we were at the library, and, following a whim, I plucked a CD from the rack of "eye candy" they keep at the checkout counter and plunked it down.

Mr. asked what it was. My reply: "I don't know. But I guess I'll find out."

The title was Twisted. The group was Hendricks, Lambert and Ross.

I had no expectations when I popped this "best of" CD into the player in my car. I'd never heard of the trio, and all I knew was what I'd learned from a glance at the back of the jewel case.

They positively knocked my socks off. They sang "vocalese," a jazz technique which was their specialty. My favorite so far is Cottontail, the Beatrix Potter tale of Peter Rabbit, sung from the viewpoint of Peter (Hendricks), with Lambert and Ross playing the moralist chorus, set to a Duke Ellington arrangement. I listened to the CD again and again to and from work, straining to catch all of the words, which went by in a blur. The effort was worthwhile. The lyrics are witty, snappy and playfully rhymed.

I had to know more. So, as is my wont, I trolled the internets.

The trio consisted of Jon Hendricks, David Lambert and Annie Ross. They recorded from 1957 (Sing a Song of Basie) until 1962.

Jon Hendricks penned most of the lyrics. He was born in Newark, Ohio in 1921. He paired up with David Lambert (born 1917). The two had a solid hit, but it wasn't until they brought Annie Ross on board that their music took off.

Annie Ross was born in 1930 in England, moved to Los Angeles when she was four, and had a unique portfolio, including an appearance in an Our Gang comedy. She brought with her the acclaimed vocalese song, Twisted. That she made the duo a trio was more of an afterthought. Lambert and Hendricks originally brought her into the studio as more of a consultant. The idea had been to hire a chorale group for back-up, but the sound didn't work. In desperation, and fearing the wrath of the recording company for spending $1,250 for the group, they decided to meet back at the studio after hours to see how they could salvage the sound. In an overnight session, they put together their first album, and it took off.

After Annie Ross left in 1962, the group was never the same. Replacements came and went. David Lambert was the next to leave. He perished in 1966, a good Samaritan to the end, killed by a semi on the interstate as he tried to help a fellow traveler change a flat tire.

Hendricks and Ross reunited in the 1990's and toured for a spell. But I couldn't find anything more recent about them.

This holiday, I'm getting my own copy of Twisted. And I'll continue trolling the library for new worlds.

Not every item I explore becomes a new favorite.

But when I do hit pay dirt, my newest discovery makes it all worthwhile.
 

Picking up the Pieces

Last weekend, I returned to an old pastime that I visit every now and again: the jigsaw puzzle. It requires no batteries or electricity (other than the required lighting). And it takes up a corner of my dining room until it is completed.

Stacked willy-nilly in my basement are puzzles ranging in age and complexity. Some are 3D. A couple are murder mysteries that are solved when the jigsaw is complete. I chose one that featured old cereal boxes, and it wasn't as easy as one would imagine.

Curious about the origins of this particular hobby, I went to my go-to online resource. The Google told me that jigsaw puzzles will be celebrating their 250th anniversary next year. The first puzzles were maps pasted on wood and cut out by hand, used as tools to educate young minds. In the 1920s, wooden puzzles were all the rage at weekend parties of the smart set, and retained their popularity even through the Depression. Eventually, the puzzles were mass produced using cardboard instead of wood, making them more affordable and thus accessible to the masses. Advertisers used them as giveaways as a means to keep their product in front of customers for hours at a time. (Oh, those wascally advertisers!) One more fun fact: early puzzles did not interlock, and no picture was supplied, just a description of what was depicted. (Now I feel like a total wuss when I complain about how hard my puzzle is.)

I'm such a weirdo, that when I work on my puzzles, analogies run through my head about life: pieces fitting together, trying to force the wrong pieces into one another, etc. Puzzles free my mind to decompress and focus on something besides the train wreck of a week I just experienced.

There are those who would argue that jigsawing is a waste of time. I would argue it's no more a waste of time than sitting in front of the boob tube. (There's a throwback phrase for you.)

And yes, I'm one of those people who sit up until all hours of a weekend morning in search of "just one more piece."

I can blame part of this passion on my predecessors. In the wintertime, my grandmother always had a jigsaw puzzle going. And at my house, we often pulled out an old chestnut and assembled it on the card table, with the extra pieces spilling over to an old board we had. (It was the lid to a toy box which was made by my grandfather, I believe...it had ranch symbols on it. Paul, do you still have that?) Sorry, I'm digressing again.

Last night, I chose the cat-with-huge-eyes-sitting-in-an-alley puzzle. It has just 500 pieces, but the colors are not very distinctive, so it's going to be a challenge. Also, since it's a used puzzle, there are probably missing pieces. (There's a special place in hell reserved for people who give away puzzles with missing pieces with no indication of same on the box.)

Okay, so I could be doing something useful, like cleaning or paying bills or saving the world, and here I am doing some stupid jigsaw puzzle.

If I could just find that one piece. It's got a little bit of white on it, and it's shaped so weird it has to be easy to find...

Hidden Treasure

The Cubs win the World Series and Biff is elected to the White House, and there's no way the DeLorean can undo any of it.

I've been so distraught this week, I've wanted to bang my head on my desk until I lose consciousness.

Instead, I decided to focus on a glimmer of joy brought to me by an unexpected source.

I'm still not sure how the idea popped into my head. Maybe it was my guardian angel. Or perhaps I'm just wired weirdly. Anyhow, I remembered a friend at work talking about the Nipa Hut, his family's restaurant in Parma Heights, and I decided Saturday was the day to try it out.

Checking out the website first, I perused the menu. Not that it helped me much. I was not acquainted at all with Filipino cuisine. I didn't know my dinguan from my fried bangus. (Honestly, I still don't, but I digress.)

I found the location with little trouble. The entrance was problematic. I tried the door. It was locked. Inside, I could see patrons eating, but I had no idea how to get in. Obviously, there was another entrance. I poked my head into the neighboring barber shop.

"You want the restaurant?" he asked, barely looking up. Without waiting for an answer, he pointed to the Asian Market next door, which had escaped my notice earlier. I walked down the first aisle and realized that the restaurant was connected at the back.

I approached the man taking orders, who HAD to be Jeff's dad. I introduced myself and explained that I worked with Jeff and that he was the one who told me about the Nipa Hut. The gentleman confirmed he was, in fact, the father of my co-worker. At which point he came out from behind the counter and stated, "You're having the buffet."

He asked me what kind of food I liked, and I told him I was feeling adventurous and wanted to try a little of everything. I got a tour of every dish, what it was called and its ingredients. There had to have been at least 20 different dishes, each with an exotic name I immediately forgot. He came to one entree and said, "Don't eat that." (Later, when I described it to Jeff, he said it was probably the dish with cow's blood in it that he hated as a kid.) At the end of the buffet were what looked like misshapen potato chips but were actually dried pieces of fish. My host looked at me dubiously. I shrugged and decided I would try them, too.

I thanked Mr. I. for his gracious hospitality and told him how much I enjoyed working with his son. Then I grabbed a plate and began to take a little of everything (except the brown stuff). A server came to my table with a bottle of water and utensils, and I was ready to go.

It was a feast. My mouth hasn't been that happy in forever. I sipped water in between each dish to cleanse my palate. Surreptitiously, I looked around the room to see if anyone else was having a religious experience. They seemed to be enjoying their food, but were already well-acquainted with the cuisine.

Once or twice I may have hit something that made my eyebrows twitch. But, for the majority of the time I was smitten. I could not tell you everything that I ate, only that it was truly amazing.

And yes, I did try the dried fish. The jury is still out. I think it's an acquired taste, but do I want to acquire it?

We'll see.

In the meantime, I cleaned my plate, left a tip, and prepared to make my departure. My host was coming out of the kitchen with a second set of silverware. I assured him I couldn't eat another thing, but what I did eat was delicious.

He told me he was glad I'd decided to be adventurous and extracted a promise from me to return. Reluctantly, I departed.

It's a real joy to me when I find a little local joint like this that has wonderful food and good folks in the kitchen.

Thanks, Mr. I.

I'll be back!

A Beastly Day

I had the theme song from (the original) Dr. Doolittle going through my head as I meandered through the zoo last Saturday.

"Keep your trunk jokes to yourself, shorty."

It occurred to me, however, that I’m not sure I’d want to hear what the animals have to say. There was a universal ennui, especially among the larger creatures. Aside from the gorillas and monkeys, who can be counted upon to engage in frenetic activity (hence, the term, “monkey shines”), the critters at the zoo were very low key.

As in sleeping. All day. Honestly, it was like hanging out with my cat. The tiger did open his eyes and stare at me. One of the leopards raised her head, gave me the stink eye, and went back to dreamland. The black bear moved his head. A little. There was an occasional rumble, probably a snore. But hardly any motion.

Still, it was a good day to wander and gape. Warm weather in late October is always a wondrous thing. And some of the species were mobile. You gotta love the elephants. If you wanted to design an animal, how would you even get to an elephant? That trunk. Those tusks. The huge feet that could squish you like a bug. And yet, they seem so laid back. So carpe diem. 

The elephants and giraffes are lucky because they have more room to roam than other large animals. Although it would appear that all giraffes really need is a tree or two to gnaw on, and they’re good. Bend down, chew, look around. Repeat.

Kangaroos are pretty awesome. And present another interesting design. How did the idea of a pouch come about? One of the ‘roos at the zoo must have given birth recently – she was toting around her youngster, who appeared to be in danger of falling out of the pouch, as mom hopped here and there and here again.  

"You can keep your shrimp, Barbie. I want the good stuff."

While I was touring the Australian Outback section, which employs every known cliché for anything from Down Under, I popped in to see the lorikeets. You walk among them, flying about, their colored wings flashing by your head. Thanks to the kindness of one of the other visitors, I was able to feed the birds. (No, not tuppence a bag, that’s another movie song.) It was a sticky, liquidy substance they go crazy over. I had one persistent dude who didn’t want to give it up, even when the stuff was gone. He climbed all over my hand, pecking away, until someone else came along with the goods. Fickle bugger.

After three hours traversing the length and breadth of the place, I decided my final stop would be the rainforest.  Always cool, but very sad to watch the number of rainforest acres steadily declining on the digital ticker. 

All in all, a day well spent. I have mixed feelings about the zoo. It’s cool that you can go somewhere to see animals you’d never be able to otherwise. But it seems unfair to those in captivity, no matter how habitable their surroundings might be. 

Another observation: The majority of people there had children. Why is the zoo considered a must-visit for kids but not adults? Do we lose our sense of wonder as we age? 

I must admit, it had been a very long time since I was at the zoo. My son was in kindergarten or first grade. 

But I resolve not to wait another too-many years before my next visit. And maybe – just maybe -- more of the inhabitants will be awake for my return. 

 Nah, you're right, probably not.

To Hale and Back

Last Sunday found me at Hale Farm and Village in beautiful Bath, Ohio. It was a lovely day to be out and about. The leaves were just a bit past their peak, but that’s okay. There was enough color to make it worthwhile. And the blue skies and warmish temps helped, too. 

Hale is a working farm that hearkens back to the mid-19^th Century. Many of the buildings have been brought from other places and restored to their original condition. 

I hadn’t been to Hale Farm in a number of years. As I recall, the last time was with my parents. This time, I was flying solo. I didn’t quite have the place to myself, but there were only a handful of other visitors. Some kids, but not too many. And they were well-behaved, so that was cool.

I met Starsky and Hutch, a pair of oxen with the stage names of Star and Bright (which they don’t answer to). There were chickens and sheep. (I did the obligatory “baaaa” at them. They ignored me, as well they should.) 

I talked to the broom maker and had a long conversation with the woman who works the looms. She’s made carpets, blankets and towels for many of the buildings on the farm. She showed me how she changes out the card to make smaller or tighter weaves. Very time consuming, but beautiful craftsmanship. There was also a candle maker, a huge kiln for pottery and a place for dyeing (with an “e”). 

I spent some time watching a glass blower. She didn’t bother wearing authentic garb, and she didn’t seem to like the audience much. But her work was amazing. I’ve always thought glass blowers were magical. 

There was enough of a crowd at the blacksmith’s that I couldn’t see much. But I get the gist, I’ve seen blacksmiths before. Heat. Pound. Repeat. Still pretty amazing that everything he does comes out the correct shape. I’d hate to think how mine would turn out.

The schoolhouse was from 1816. The "teacher" there looked pretty bored, so I made a point of asking her a few questions. Like who came up with the dunce cap. It was named for Johannes Duns Scotus, a 13^th century friar and philosopher who was brilliant in his time. He liked to wear a conical hat, which symbolized wizardry and wizards, who were smart. He had thousands of followers at one time, known as Dunsmen or Dunces, but his teachings lost favor during the Renaissance, and the hat came to symbolize stupidity. Thus, the dunce cap became the dreaded accessory to schoolchildren in classrooms far and wide. 

Continuing on my way, I toured several houses on the property, most of them built elsewhere. My favorite building was the meeting house. I sat on one of the benches (pews? Or is that a Catholic thing?) and closed my eyes, trying to imagine the people who had been there and the topics under discussion. Did they keep it civil? Or was there shouting and shenanigans?

I lunched al fresco, me and my chicken salad. I bailed when a persistent yellow jacket invaded my space. One more walk around, and I reluctantly called it a day.

So much we take for granted in our modern world. It was nice to take a step back and slow down the pace for a day and restore the soul. 

But no, I would not want to go back to a time when 11 people lived in a cabin the size of our bathroom at work. And I am too attached to indoor plumbing to think the past was all romance.

Still, it was nice to be off the grid for just a little while.

Leaf Me Be

I wonder what it's like to live in a part of the country where the trees stay the same color all year long.

Sometimes I'll watch a movie or TV show based in California or Arizona, and the episode takes place in autumn or during the holidays. The sun is shining, or maybe it's raining, but there are palm trees or cacti in the background.

The past couple of weeks I've been admiring the foliage along my drive to work. I have mixed feelings about this time of year. On the one hand, the weather has been pretty nice, and I love the leaf thing. On the other hand, like the Sword of Damocles, winter is looming, and we all know what comes next.

My goal this weekend is to get out and enjoy the riotous leafy amazement before it disappears. The past two nights, however, I've lain awake listening to the wind howl and the rain beat at my windows, wondering if there will be any leaves left to enjoy.

Well, "we'll see," as my mother always said.

If nothing else, I will seek out a seasonal beverage (mulled cider? pumpkin latte?) and go forth to enjoy whatever Mother Nature has to offer. Sunday looks to be the best day at this point.

Anyone else up for a leafy adventure?

What Were They Thinking?

I drive 70 miles a day to and from work, and I listen to a lot of music. So I have plenty of time to ponder the lyrics.

Maybe I'm the only one who does this, but I find myself thinking about the songwriter/singer and who he/she was writing/singing the song about.

There are some famous tunes, like Suite Judy Blue Eyes (Crosby, Stills & Nash) that chronicle a real relationship (in this case, Stephen Stills & Judy Collins).

Or the Jenny song, with the famous phone number.

But most songs go unattributed. Maybe they aren't about anyone. Or maybe they're written about a conglomeration of former lovers.

I know Paul Simon draws on real life. Hearts and Bones and Train in the Distance really resonate with me. It may help when the lyrics are based on real life experience versus something that's pure invention.

On the other hand, I'm a huge fan of Kat Edmonson, and I have no idea if she sings about real people. All I know is, she pours her heart out.

Also, no one, to my mind, ever owned Beyond the Sea the way Bobby Darin did. Easy, breezy on the surface, but with deep longing just below the surface.

And, while I like Frank Sinatra, and I appreciate that he could really belt it out back in the day, I never felt like Old Blue Eyes got anywhere near my soul when he sang.

Now, Ella, on the other hand, was pure passion. Awesome.

Janis Joplin still makes my heart ache.

Carole King's Tapestry is pure gold.

Boz Scaggs soothes my soul.

Sorry I'm rattling on this morning. I should just wrap it up and move on with my day.

A little James Taylor, you say?

Yes, that will work just fine.

Using My Inside Voice

I know it's my personality type. I am too intense. I care too much. And so, from time to time, I become overwhelmed by the relentless nature of life.

It was time for drastic action. So, yesterday I took myself out for lunch so I could have a chat. (Not out loud.)

The weather was gorgeous, with a high temp in the 70's, sunny and nice. Not very fall-like at all. No complaints here. I decided to take me to Swenson's, a local drive-in that has waitstaff running from car to car taking orders and delivering the goods.

As I waited for my Galley Boy and chocolate malt, I broached the topic at hand. The conversation went something like this:

I: The only one who can make you happy is you. Happiness comes from within. You need to plant your own garden, cultivate your peace. No one can do that for you.

Me: What are you now, Our Lady of the Platitudes? Don't you think I know all that?

I: Of course you do, but look at you. You're a mess. I just thought you needed to be reminded. Look around. It's a beautiful day. You're sitting in your car, breathing in warm sunshiny air, anticipating a comfort food lunch. You've got to slow down. You move too fast.

Me: I've got to make the morning last? Thanks, Paul Simon.

I: I'm thinking it's pretty hopeless here. Do you even have an "off" switch?

Me: I don't think so. I'll let you know after my first heart attack.

I: What if you just downshift? Do you think you could do that?

Running man attached a tray of food to my window. I took my shake from him so it wouldn't spill, and inhaled the fragrance of a fresh-off-the-grill cheeseburger with stuff on it that would not make my waistline happy.

Me: I think I can eat right now. One bite at a time. Small bites.

So, I did. And watched the ants scurry around me. The guy in the next car was getting shirty that they couldn't find his food, until he remembered he'd given them his first name for the order, not his last name.

A tray was dropped. A lot of people were served. And the daily drama moved along, while I watched.

And just like that, I began to relax and enjoy my lunch.

I: Better?

Me: Yep, this was a good idea, thanks. We should do this more often.

I: Well, duh. You gonna be okay?

Me: I think so. Let's roll. We just gotta take this one day at a time.

I: Whose the platitude-master now?

Me: Shut up.

I: I didn't say a word.