I Evolved

OK, technology won and I have to embrace it. That's my lesson from 2011. As proof, today I downloaded three apps for our Nook. Who knew?

2012 is a leap year. On our personal calendar is our trip to Israel in February followed by a big birthday for my wife in March and a very special anniversary for us in August.

It's also a presidential election year and I intend to leap into that fray from time to time with what I feel would be appropriate comments.

Let's all leap into 2012 with our eyes wide open and hope we land safely.

Happy New Year.

Winding Down

This will be my 316th blog entry in 2011. I had hoped to blog every day but didn’t make it. I'll post something tomorrow so the year-end total will be 317. Not bad, considering.

By the way, in case you were wondering, Goldman is darning his socks tonight. He expects a big year in 2012 and needs to perk up his wardrobe. We'll check up on him again soon.

Meantime, don't go too crazy tomorrow night. After all, Sunday is just another day.

All the best.

Muddling Marv

Goldman's Socks

This has been a rough year for Goldman's socks. He couldn't seem to find the right pair no matter how hard he tried.

And when he did, one or the other kept falling down. He'd pull one up and the other would droop. Finally, he just wore them around the ankles hoping no one would notice. But they did.

And then the trouble really began.

Goldman's socks began to unravel. It started with a small thread coming loose at the top. He tried to ignore it but, like an itch, he couldn't let it go. Of course, once he started pulling on it the whole sock came apart. He was left with threads around the ankle.

Goldman was at a loss as to what to do. He had plenty of socks in his drawers but he couldn't decide which ones would fit perfectly. He thought about trying a pair a day. Too risky, he thought. People might think he was unable to make a decision. Bad for business, that.

He really needed a solid pair of socks that would restore his confidence; allow him to walk into a room without worrying about people sneaking peaks at his ankles. He could lengthen his trousers but at some point he would inevitably cross his legs and the drooping socks would be visible.

They had to be perfect. He called in a consultant. A Soxologist, as it were. Her advice: go barefoot, wear flip-flops, good for business, very Now. She billed $1.5 million for the consult. He deducted it from his tax bill as a medical expense.

Goldman reached for the Argyles.

Tablet Time

No sooner did we mention we got a Nook then friends told us they got iPads or Kindles. 'Tis the season of the tablet, no doubt.

I mentioned previously that must of us of a certain age wished these devices came with printed instructions, but we've all moved on since then and are enjoying our new toys.

We heard one amusing story from a neighbor whose son who was so excited with his new device he was demanding face time with his sister. Said his mother: “She's right there, you can have all the face time you want just turn around.” What fun is that?

Anyway, I have three more nights to muddle through the modern world and then I'm declaring myself free to blog about anything instead of ranting and wailing only about technology. That will be a new challenge.

The world will still be modern, of course, but I'm veering off course to muddle in as many puddles as I can find.

They're out there.

The Midnight Muse

The Midnight Muse
Summoned to amuse
Replies, I refuse
No excuse

The Onlooker

I glimpsed the future today. It took the form of muscular young men home from school flexing their muscles in our gym. Can't be too fit for the future, you know. Later, at a nine-year-old's birthday party, the future belonged to much younger kids running around and through the adults in the room.

One of the kids was manipulating a game on a flat screen TV. Another was scanning YouTube for something that might interest him. I don't think he found anything. Just scanning the world for the future.

As for the adults, we were talking about our new e-readers. Certainly a thrust into the future. A source of our concern (and here's where we show our age) the lack of printed instructions to help us use the devices. All the instructions are embedded in the software.

We like to look at a piece of paper and then follow the instructions thereon. We find it difficult to look at something on a screen and then try to perform the task. Young people don't seem to have any trouble at all with this.

I just keep hitting buttons or the touch screen until something happens. Sometimes it's what I want to happen, other times not. It's a challenge my wife would prefer to do without.

So while some brace for the future and others race to the future we just try to keep pace.

No Movie, No Chinese

It's not exactly a tradition but in Christmas Past many people who do not celebrate Christmas Day often spend the afternoon at a movie followed by dinner at a Chinese restaurant, since almost all other eateries are usually closed.

We did something different this Christmas Present. A very nice woman we met at our beginner's bridge club invited us to her home this afternoon to play bridge with her and her partner. Since three of us were beginner's, her more experienced partner obligingly agreed to help us out.

We spent an enjoyable two hours at cards and then adjourned for a glass of wine before going out to dinner. And, no, we did not go to a Chinese restaurant, most of which are jammed this evening.

Instead, we opted for a local Jewish-style delicatessen we like which is open on Christmas Day. A few years ago, tired of the Christmas Day/Chinese Food routine, we called the deli to see if they were open. They were and we had a nice, quiet, leisurely dinner in a sparsely occupied restaurant.

As you can imagine, something that good inevitably catches on. As we were leaving this evening, they were packing them in.

A sign of Christmas Future?

“Holy Hollywood,” Meryl!

'Tis the season to go to the movies, if you're young and can afford the price of a ticket.

Meryl Streep observed on “60 Minutes” recently that movies were made for 18-year-old boys because they bought toys and games based on movies. I don't think I ever bought a game or toy because of a movie or a play. The entertainment or intellectual stimulation was sufficient.

My wife's reaction to Ms. Streep's remark was we don't rush to the movies, even for the good ones, because we still remember what a ticket used to cost. It's not that we can't afford today's prices, it just galls us to pay them.

Our grandchildren, who love movies, think nothing of paying about $11 to see a film. We, who once paid about half that for admission, think twice or maybe three times before leaving the house. And then it has to be for a blockbuster film that has to be seen on a large screen.

But there are several movies now playing that seem worthwhile and we may actually see them in the next week or two. It is the Holiday Season after all and we may just give ourselves a gift of some movies.

No popcorn, no candy. Just pleasure.

Season's Greetings.

What? No Wifi?

It's amazing how casually we expect everything digital to work all the time everywhere.

Take our local community gym for instance. Quick back story: Just as we were leaving for the gym this morning, my wife discovered her iPod was dead. She likes to walk to music. Hey, why don't you take your new Nook and listen to the music stations we logged onto it. Sounded like a great idea. Except it wasn't.

We found out the hard way that you needed a wifi hot spot to connect to your Nook music stations. Oh? And our gym is NOT wifi friendly. Humph. Who would have thought.

OK, time for Plan B. Just this morning we had bought our first Nook book, Chris Mathews' “Jack Kennedy.” So instead of tread-milling to music, my wife spent her walking time reading. She loved it.

We'll install her music on the Nook eventually.

So many details in the digital world. I'm trying not to let them muddle me more than usual.

Play From Start

That's what it says when I return to a DVR after interrupting the program: Resume Play, Play from Start, Delete. Well, I didn't want to delete today but I sure wanted to “Play From Start.”

Nothing serious happened it's just that when I came down to breakfast my routine became slightly skewed. I became annoyed. Out of sorts. I fought to regain equilibrium.

Then my wife and I left for our bridge lesson. In the car we had a minor dispute over something so trivial I can't even remember what it was. Then I said: “let's start this day over.” It was metaphorical. We know we can't really do that but after a respectful silence, we tried.

I pulled into a nearby Dunkin' Donuts to pick up coffee before entering the bridge club. It was so crowded I left empty handed. Another bad vibe.

Then we had our bridge lesson and it went from bad to worse. Our instructor spoke faster than I could listen. All I heard was her voice. Words, not so much. We bid our hands haphazardly, played them worse. Not a good session.

The turnaround came at lunch. We went to a small deli/restaurant nearby, had great sandwiches, ran a few errands and got home safely. Two naps later all was right with the world again.

Resume Play.

Bit by the GIGO Bug

You know, the acronym for Garbage In Garbage Out.

I went to check on an online bill pay this evening. The bill was supposed to be paid today. Well, I thought it was supposed to be paid today. Seems I entered tomorrow's date instead.

It's not a crisis thing but it is annoying. Now I have to go on line again tomorrow to make sure the bill is actually paid.

A few weeks ago I got it right but hadn't received a confirmation email from the bank by the end of the day. I called to find out why and the spokesperson said they had so many online bills to pay they were behind in the email notifications. That was not reassuring.

Anyway, this time it was my fault and we'll check in the morning to see if all went as planned. Lesson learned. Check, Check and Double Check. Then check again.

Speaking of checks, remember when we just paid bills by check? Seemed a lot simpler then. Just you, the post office and the recipient. Of course, you had to remember to pay the bill on time then, too.

But still, fewer hands to muddle things up. Mine included.

Rambling

I took a creative writing course once at a nearby adult school. One of the things our instructor suggested was when confronted with a blank piece of paper just start writing. Whatever comes to mind.

Sometimes she would give us a topic sentence, or part of a sentence and ask us to write a short short story from that starting point. Amazingly everyone did. And then we read them aloud. Some of them were surprisingly good. I think I saved mine somewhere. Would I ever look at them again? Probably not.

Then there are newspaper or magazine stories I thought I'd write about, but haven't. There's a stack of them on my desk. It's getting unwieldy.

I've got all sorts of notes in that pile, including a discount coupon from a local bagel bakery. Not writing about that, I just know where it is when I need it. I digress.

Then again this little ramble is all about digression. It's obvious I have no particular subject in mind for tonight's blog. It's been a good day. We received new pictures of our family in Israel. My wife and I played a bit with our new Nook and learned a few things. I actually sent two emails from it and received replies. Wondrous.

Who knew I could be muddling closer to the modern world before year's end. There even may be a smart phone in my future.

In the immortal words of Charlie Brown: “Good Grief!”

“No Problem!”

Usually said with a smile or, if on the phone, followed by “be right back.” And then, nothing.

I hear it mostly from the young, signifying that my question or request is such a simple task it will be immediately satisfied. Except when it isn't.

“No problem,” sometimes shortened to “no prob,” is condescending to my ear. It suggests child's play for the responder. Except when they can't.

For instance, calling a store on the phone and asking to speak with a manager. No problem, says the responder, who then disappears leaving me holding either a dead line or incessantly boring music or, worse, store commercials.

“May I have some additional dressing for my salad,” I ask the waiter. No problem, says he or she, except it becomes one when the server fails to return with the dressing before the check.

You've all had these experiences. You've all heard the expression, ad nauseum.

“No problem,” except when it is.

Whatever happened to: “I'll check on that and get right back to you.” Or, “I'll look into it.” Or, “I'll be happy to assist you with that.” Or, “Sure, I'll get that for you right away.”

Is there a problem with that?

We've Been NOOK'ed!

We had a very nice surprise today. My son, daughter-in-law and their four children gave us a Nook e-reader as a multi-occasion gift; Hanukkah and my upcoming birthday.

Considering I just blogged about not buying an iPad you can imagine our surprise and delight at this thoughtful gesture. Believe it or not, I actually read the introductory instructions and since it says it takes three hours to fully charge, I'm saving that for the morning.

Then we'll get serious about exploring all its capabilities. I'm sure we'll love it.

Thanks again, Rob, Caroline, Ben, Zack, Sam and Jake.

Nana Mary's Cookies

This is the time of year we make my mother's famous cookies, which we call, phonetically, poo'gotch-uls. Our kids called them simply, Nana Mary's cookies. And now that's how we refer to them.

We baked 48 NMCs today. Most of them we'll take to our son tomorrow to celebrate his birthday and the rest we'll keep for ourselves. We prefer to eat our NMCs after either lunch or dinner, saving or savoring them, for later. Which is why we call by their nickname: fuh-lay'ders.

Years ago there was a small chain of Hungarian bakeries in New York called Mrs. Altman's, which used to make and sell poo'gatch-uls. I would stop there on the way home from work and buy a box. They were very good but not as good as my mother's. Alas, Mrs. Altman's stores are no more.

Happily, my mother's recipe is alive and well in our kitchen. I hope our children and/or grandchildren will want to keep the recipe alive.

Through the years, very few people we know ever heard of poo'gotch-uls. I knew they were a Hungarian delicacy so I Goggled Hungarian Cookies (at my wife's suggestion) and there they were. Here's the link, if you're interested:

http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Pog%C3%A1csa&printable=yes

The recipe stays here.

See ya. Time for a fuh-lay'der.

The NoPad

I promised I wouldn’t bore you with my mental gyrations about buying or not buying an iPad2, which I discovered is the only iPad for sale these days.

The short answer is we're not buying one. We went to the Apple store yesterday and one of their nice “geniuses” showed us the device, explained it well, demonstrated it well and impressed us with its versatility.

I particularly liked his honesty when I asked him: “Why does someone need an iPad?”

You don't need an iPad, he said, but it is handy to have and fun to use.

Good for him. At $500 a pop, not good enough for me.

No sale. End of story.

Milestone

When I started my car this morning the odometer read 9985. My pulse raced. This was the day we would crack the 10,000 mile mark.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead who doesn't thrill to the rolling of the numbers on an odometer when it's crossing a significant threshold?

When we were kids, the odometer had readouts in tenths of miles. You could see incrementally how close you were coming to a magic moment. It was difficult keeping your eyes on the road anticipating numbers rolling into history.

It's trickier today. Odometers are digital. They click by a mile at a time. You have no idea just when that click will click. By the time you're one mile short of the roll-out you really don't know when it will happen.

Since my wife and I had several stops on our rounds today we knew to keep a sharp watch. The first stop added only a few miles, not even to 9990. The second stop got us to 9995. And since we were now further from home than when we started, we knew the return trip would trip the odometer to 10000. (Note: no commas.)

The suspense built. I fought to keep my eyes on the road. At 9998 my wife leaned over to keep watch. At 9999 I made sure to drive safely since I knew where my real concentration was.

At 1:54 p.m., Thursday, Dec. 15, 2011, on Northfield Ave., just east of Old Short Hills Rd., in Livingston, NJ, my 2010 Honda Accord registered its 10000th mile.

No, it's not for sale.

Coffee? Please.

How do you forget a habit? Or am I confusing habit with ritual? Or habit with something I normally do before going to bed. Like setting up the coffee maker for the morning.

Last night I forgot to do that. This morning, my wife, confident that my task was done, came into the kitchen and turned on the coffee maker. When a strange odor arose from the machine she realized something was wrong. Sure enough, there was no water in the tank and thus no coffee brewing.

She was very good about not screaming at me for forgetting to prep the machine. I was embarrassed. It was only the second time in years that I neglected that chore. I blame it on blogging.

It's a nightly toss-up whether I blog first and set up the coffee second or set up the coffee first and blog second. Depends on when the muse strikes. Last night I wrote so early that I completely neglected the coffee chore.

Tonight, I did the coffee thing first so I'm blogging now.

Habit has many definitions in my dictionary. One of them is a “an act repeated so often by an individual that is has become automatic with him.”

Except when he forgets.

The Got-Done List

Everyone has a to-do list. It's on all your electronic devices and it's one of those things that supposedly never gets completed. Like the in-box that's never empty.

Today I did a Got-Done list. Simply put, I put my to-do list in my pocket, got in the car and within an hour of zipping here and there, everything on the list was done.

True, I didn't exactly create peace in the Middle East or solve the world's economic problems, but I did gas up my car, put air in its tires, got it washed, made a bank deposit, returned a magazine to our dentist, returned a book to the library, changed an outside light bulb and paid a bill on line.

After a brief break, I went to lunch with an old colleague from our CBS days. We ate, we chatted, we enjoyed each other's company and departed with best wishes for the holiday season and the New Year.

I was home by mid-afternoon and caught up with my wife's activities. We canceled further activities in favor of afternoon naps. Retiring to our respective couches we slept until dinner time.

An exhausting Got-Done Day.

Wednesday's to-do list is on my desk.

The Worst Time

The worst time for conversation is just before going to bed. We do it all the time.

We spend a quiet evening reading the papers, watching television, falling asleep on the couch and THEN, when it's time to close up for the night we start organizing files, discussing the next day's activities, making to-do lists and sometimes getting on each other's nerves when we can't decide on A or B. (And, by the way, writing my blog.)

How silly is that? If you're tired save it for tomorrow. Then again, it's nice to plan ahead. Gives you a sense of control of your upcoming day. Sometimes the to-do list gets a little crowded and then you wonder if you'll have time for everything.

Then again, what's the hurry? Chances are whatever it is can wait a day or even two. Like "registering" our new washer and dryer. The forms have been sitting on my desk for over a week. Why do we have to "register" these things anyway?

What if we didn't register? Would the registration police knock on our doors and demand the model and serial numbers of our new products?

How's this for a new product: Registration Protection. No pat-downs, no strip searches. No personal intrusions. But you have to register for it.

Heading South

We had sort of a farewell lunch yesterday with a couple who are leaving for Florida this week for the winter. They, in turn, had dinner with another couple of stay-at-homes the night before. I dubbed it the snowbirds farewell tour.

Another of our acquaintances is already tucked in Florida for the duration. Others will be joining them soon. We will not.

Yes, it will be cold for the next several months so we will dress accordingly like everyone else in the northeast. And we will put up with snow and whatever other winter weather comes our way.

Fortunately, we're retired so we don't have the hassle of commuting during bad weather. But we will be keeping our eyes out for any snow shoveling crews that offer (for a price, of course) to clear our driveway and walks. That will let us get out and about as necessary.

Otherwise, it's just a case of hunkering down and muddling through as best we can.

After all, 'tis the season to be freezin'.

High Anxiety

No, not the Mel Brooks movie of the same name but the kind of anxiety that grips you when you can’t find something you know is in the house.

I got the call on my cell at about 10:30 this morning as I was leaving Dunkin' Donuts after our morning tennis game. (No we don't play tennis at DD but going there for coffee afterward is a tradition). My wife was upset. She said she was frustrated. To my ear it sounded like panic. The problem was she couldn’t find our tickets for tomorrow's performance by Itzhak Perlman at the New Jersey Performing Arts Center (NJPAC). (Did she think I had them in my tennis shorts?)

Trying to be as reassuring as I could, I said I'm on my way home and I'll help you look for them. When I got home, I too, could not find them.

The tickets had been clipped to my wife's date book for three months. This morning, when she went to her desk to check the time of the performance the tickets were not there.

We looked everywhere we thought they logically could be. Nothing. Look, I said, when we least expect it and we're not looking for them they'll appear.* Meantime, we called our friend who had charged the tickets and told her what happened.

No problem. She called the PAC and they had no trouble printing duplicates for us to pick up at the box office. Problem solved, an uneasy serenity returned.

You guessed it. (See*). After dinner we're discussing shopping Monday. My wife picks up a discount coupon for a store she wants to visit and clipped to the back of the coupon are the missing tickets. We'll tell our friends in the morning.

We won't tell Itzhak. He should just play nicely.

Happy Shopping

Gadgets Gadgets
Everywhere and
not an app to think
It muddles the mind

Look Around

I can't stress enough the importance of looking around before leaving the house. In my case, looking down is almost more important.

You see we have white carpeting in our house. And ever since it was installed I don footwear solely (no pun intended) for use in the house. Thing is, sometimes I forget I have them on and leave the house wearing them. It's not tragic but it is annoying. Hence the looking down to make sure I have “outside shoes” on.

As for the looking around, that's to make sure you haven't left behind the things you wanted to take with you. Like the house keys. The book you want to return to the library. The bill you want to drop off at the Post Office (before it disappears altogether, the Post Office, not the bill).

Recently my wife left for her gym class only to ring the bell moments later to ask me to retrieve her water bottle which she left in the kitchen. I've done that, too.

Are any of these little annoyances life-threatening? Of course not. But they are preventable if we remember to look around before leaving the room or house.

I guess it's more applicable to persons of a certain age.

Is He Serious?

I started this year obsessing over purchasing a Blu-ray disc player in order to stream movies to my TV. By the time I finally bought one, the garbage being streamed sent me streaming out of Netflix. So now the Blu-ray sits idle.

Now I'm starting to obsess over whether I really need or want a tablet or a smart phone. I can't see owning both. Or either. Yet.

What put the bug in my mind was our scheduled trip to Israel in March to visit new great-grandchildren. The flights are long and boring. I can see value in a tablet for reading away the hours. I need to do serious research into the features of both devices. And their costs.

Of course, this new direction flies in the face of my year-long struggle to cope with the expanding reach of technology. Am I ready for this next step? We'll find out eventually but I promise not to bore you incessantly with my mental muddling.

Besides, after a year of blogging essentially about my battle with the new technology, in the New Year I intend to write on any subject that captures my attention. It's a leap year, giving us one more day to rant or rumble and it's an election year which makes everything and everyone fair game.

I'm looking forward to unleashing the Muddler. It'll be fun.

Trumping the Future

Email is a wonderful thing but sometimes it's just not fast enough.

For those of us still tethered to PC's getting 'the word” means sitting at the instrument and calling up your email. This evening I checked email rather late and discovered that we had a problem getting our tennis foursome together for a set on Friday.

Since none of us check email as often as I do, I did the retro thing. I called our members on the telephone and discovered we all could play on Saturday.

Now I have to find out if we can get a court on that day and at a time we prefer. THEN, I will revert to email and inform one and all.

It's good to be “ambitechxtrous,” able to muddle through the old and the modern world.

"Bumpers"

Introducing: “Bumpers, The Game.”

Object: interdicting persons walking in public with eyes glued to their hand-held device, oblivious to passersby. Players get one point for delivering a glancing blow, two points for “jolting,” and three points for a chest-on collision that actually gets the device addict to look at you. Four bonus points if they apologize for bumping into you.

Amass as many points as you like without getting arrested for assault. Compare with friends, reward the high point gatherer as you see fit. A light beer or a glass of wine, perhaps.

For the offenders: “Bumpers Protective Gear”

Protects the oblivious user of a hand-held device from injury. Comes in Unisex sizes for indoor and outdoor use. Features padded shoulders to ward off glancing blows, heavy-duty arm-length padding for “jolts,” and full-body padding when anticipating chesties (recommended for crowded conditions, such as texting, tweeting, etc. while strolling Fifth Avenue during the holiday season.)

Available at any store that sells infant wear, which is appropriate for conduct unbecoming an adult.

Be careful out there. We're watching you.

Tools Make the Man

You may be familiar with the old saying that a workman is only as good as his tools. I have primitive tools so I am a primitive workman. Which makes even the simplest task harder for me than, say, a person armed with the latest toolery (I think I just made up that word).

Today's tasks should have been easy. We're taking delivery on a new washer and dryer in the morning. In order to get them down to the basement I had to remove a shelf and two bannisters that might have been in the way.The shelf was easy. It just pulled out.

The bannisters were a different story. There were six screws on the upper bannister and six more plus four bolts on the lower bannister. The bannisters were installed for us by a friend who is a meticulous do-it-yourselfer. Meaning once they were installed you uninstalled them at your peril.

Hence dismantling the bannisters this evening became perilous for this primitive workman. The screws were in so tight I'm convinced my friend used power tools to install them. I had a variety of screwdrivers, one wrench and my own two hands. Plus my wife's assistance and encouragement.

This simple task, which we had saved for the last minute, turned out to be a lot tougher than we thought. But we got it done and I bumped my head only once, slightly, during the process.

We're expecting a contractor later in the week to begin work on the basement. He's younger and more skilled than me.

It should be easy for him to put up the down bannisters.

Muddlers Meet

I am not alone. I met another admitted muddler today.

My wife and I dropped in briefly at our town's “Fair in the Square,” an outdoor sort of flea market in our municipal square. She spotted a fellow senior exerciser and began chatting. Introductions were made and the friend identified me to her husband as the man who blogs as Muddling Marv.

Hey, he said, I'm a muddler, too. And so we commiserated briefly about muddling through the modern world. He said his printer was busted. That was proof enough for me that he was one of us.

I told him where he could find me on line if he was so moved and we parted colleagues in confusion about the world swirling around us.

Muddlers love company.

A Techno Leap

We have a friend who still uses AOL on her computer. Whenever I try to send her a new picture of a great-grandchild, she can't open the attachment with the picture.

Earlier this evening she called to tell us she treated herself and her husband to an iPad. Her grandson set it up for her (naturally) and lo and behold, she was able to see the most recent picture we emailed her. She was thrilled she could do it and also made the appropriate noises about the new baby.

This is a person I always considered way behind the technology curve. Now she is laps ahead of us. Time will tell how well or often she uses her new toy. But the mere fact she bought it has me thinking.

Am I next to tiptoe into the modern world? Right now it's enough to have a PC, a laptop and a cell phone. I use all three regularly for email and searches and, of course, to write my blog.

Yet I feel the hot breath of modernity on my neck. For the moment, I'll just turn up my collar.

The Bad Seed

For days my wife had been complaining about an irritation on her gum line. She was certain it was a remnant of the delicious corned beef sandwich we shared a few days ago.

You know how corned beef can melt in your mouth, to say nothing of getting clogged between your teeth. Yet we still indulge. Wonderful on rye with mustard. Death to those who corrupt corned beef with mayonnaise! On white bread, yet.

But I digress. Back to the painful back tooth. After days of dithering, she finally called our dentist. He could see her in two days. She didn't think it was an emergency so she agreed to wait.

Today was the day. He examined her mouth and extracted a tiny object that had scrunched down just below the gum line and against a back molar. The corned beef was exonerated. The object was a tomato seed. He asked if she'd like to keep it. She declined.

How much did removing this potato seed cost us, I asked? $62, she said.

I would have framed it. At those prices it qualifies as art.

Borrowing a title from novelist William March, I would have named it “The Bad Seed.”

Is Someone Peeking?

Yesterday I wrote about our tennis group called The Muffineers. Suddenly, there appeared on my blog page three items related to muffins.

How did they get there? Is Google scanning my blog for commercial opportunities without telling me? I'm not selling muffins or anything else, for that matter. I write for fun despite Samuel Johnson's exclamation “no man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money.”

I used to get paid for writing when I was a reporter, then editor and later radio and TV producing. But I never considered that pure writing. I was communicating information in various media and enjoyed doing it. I think I was pretty good at it.

This is different. This is me commenting on whatever I feel like. I try to make it interesting and, if I can, entertaining. And if the only one entertained is me, that's OK too.

I'm aware that many bloggers succeed in “monetizing” their stuff. I read about them all the time. I wish them well. I don't have that kind of ambition now. I'm happy if I can turn a neat phrase to make a point.

And if anyone out there is reading me, how about saying hello?

Maybe we could share a muffin sometime.

The Muffineers

Four of the five original Muffineers reunited this afternoon for lunch. The fifth guy had to work. There was no swordplay, just forks and knives attacking our respective dishes.

Here's why we call ourselves Muffineers. The core of our tennis group was five regulars, one of whom was always unavailable to play for one reason or another. So four of us would convene post-game at a local coffee shop for coffee and, yes, muffins.

Being conscious of our waistlines, however, we never ordered a muffin apiece. Rather we shared two muffins, usually one corn and one blueberry, which we cut into quarters.

We sliced the muffins vertically rather than horizontally so we each had a top and bottom of each muffin. You can imagine the delicacy of this operation, four pairs of eyes carefully watching the slicer.

(If you're interested in the math, two muffins became eight quarters. Each man ended up with a quarter of a blueberry and a quarter of a corn muffin, a top and bottom of each. Made us feel very virtuous.)

Although we enjoyed our weekly tennis, there were times we looked forward more to our coffee and muffins. Once or twice a year The Muffineers would spring for dinner with our wives. Mostly, though, it was just the guys.

While injuries have depleted our ranks they have not depleted our appetites. So it wasn't much of a stretch to gather four of us, including two walking wounded, together to catch up with each other and enjoy a leisurely meal.

It was fun. And no, we did NOT have any muffins.

Uninspired

Taking the night off.

All the best.

The Muddler

When opposites are really opposite...

How often have you said one thing and meant the opposite? If you're like us, quite often.

Example: The other day my wife uttered this beauty, “I never did that again.” Of course she meant “before.” I'm hardly immune to this trait. In fact, I'm famous for saying “no” before I say “yes.” I caught the habit from a tennis friend who is congenitally negative.

Unquestionably it's the “speak-before-you-think” syndrome (SBYT, in scientific parlance).

While the symptoms are confusing, the polite thing to do is to gently correct the speaker. Ignoring it could lead to strange consequences.

You might actually believe the person meant what they said. That could be awkward.

Muddling is easy. Getting through is hard.

“Eric The Everywhere”

You know we've had problems getting a fourth for tennis these days. Well, today a 21- year-old college senior was our fourth. The fact his chemistry professor is one of our regulars may have influenced his decision to join us.

In any case it was a revelation playing with this incredibly energetic young man. The revelation was all on our side as we watched him dart from sideline to sideline and net to baseline to return everything hit on his side of the court.

Occasionally his professor/partner got into the act but “Eric The Everywhere” got everything else.

Although he was playing against two octogenarians he hit hard and placed the ball well. And as we moved him around the court, marveling at his ability to get to virtually every shot, we almost forgot to stay in the point.

It didn't help that a six-year-old girl taking lessons on the next court was belting every shot from her instructor back at him. We couldn't decide who to watch first, Eric or the kid.

Somewhat distracted, we dropped the first two games then “gathered ourselves” (as TV's golf analysts say) and won our set, 6-4. Fortunately, our hour of court time expired before we did.

An old quote sums up the experience nicely:

“Youth will be served, every dog has his day and mine has been a fine one.” George Borrow, 1803-1881.

Here, it's just Friday

Not Black, Brown or any other color. Just Friday.

Our contribution to the economy was staying out of the stores. Think of it this way, we were two less people bargain hunters would have to shove away to get a clear shot at their target items.

One of those bargain hunters was aided and abetted by my grandson, Ben. He accompanied a friend to a Walmart last night. The store opened at 10 p.m. and they were one of the first shoppers. Not the first but among that surge.

How'd they do? Ben said his friend saved about $200 on a 40” 1080p TV set. “It was a steal,” he said.

We ventured out of the house only once today, to go our gym. It was unusually crowded with muscular young men, a far cry from what we usually see there. They were either college kids on break or high schoolers off for the Thanksgiving holiday. In any case they weren't shopping. It would not have been easy to muscle these guys away from the counters.

Tomorrow is Saner Saturday.

A Nod to Technology

Most of the time I gripe about excess technology. Today was different.

We received a call this morning from Israel announcing the birth of our fourth great-grandchild, a girl. We had been expecting the news and were delighted when it came.

There was nothing extraordinary about using the phone to tell us the news, but then we had a bonus.

My grandson, who told us about the birth, Skyped us as well and we had a video visit with him, my granddaughter (his wife) and their two girls, who are both under 3. The girls looked a little confused about who they were seeing on their computer screen. But they were adorable.

Things were complicated by poor audio at their end. We could hear them fine but they had problems understanding us. I still haven't figured out why we can hear a Skype call fine but the other party can't hear us well.

Later in the day, through the miracle of technology, the new father sent us a photo of his daughter via email. Naturally she's beautiful and everyone comments on how much hair she has.

Anyway, all is well with the entire Israeli family and we are planning to visit them early next year. Lot's of kids to catch up with.

In New Jersey, we spent a wonderful Thanksgiving with our son, Rob, daughter-in-law, Caroline, their four young adult children and Caroline's Mom.

I'm especially thankful for having completed yesterday 44 radiation treatments for prostate cancer. I don't usually discuss health issues with other people but when I mention this experience to other men of my age I'm astonished at how many responses of “been-there-done-that” I get.

I guess it's the de rigueur disease of older men.

Wait, wait, there's one more...

Seems I was hasty saying we had heard from all the contractors we contacted about repairing our flooded basement. Another one called this morning apologizing for getting back to us so late. He said he'd been on vacation.

Since he was recommended by a friend we said OK, let's talk. He'll be here Friday morning and we'll see what he thinks we should do.

Meantime, Happy Thanksgiving all.

The Last Contractor

We've gotten bids from several contractors in recent weeks on how to treat our basement, which was inundated with eight inches of water during the Halloween snowstorm and subsequent power failure.

The last one arrived today and gave us his ideas on what we should do down there. Now we have to decide. To say we are conflicted is putting it mildly.

We've lived here since 1963. The basement had knotty pine paneling when we moved in and it still does, although the paneling has been sawed off at the bottom twice for french drain installations.

When our kids were young, they used to store their toys down there (at least that's what my wife tells me. I don't remember.) But I don't recall them playing there.

We've always used the basement for clothes washing, drying and ironing (she does). I store stuff and occasionally empty the dehumidifier. We have what we euphemistically call a “work bench” but it's really a catch-all for old tools, paints and assorted odds and ends. Rarely is it used for work.

In fact, two of my oldest possessions are on or under the bench. One is a large scissors from my father's tailor shop in The Bronx and the other is my late older brother's Boy Scout hatchet. I've never used the hatchet and only once in a while used the scissors. But I'm keeping both. Sentimental value.

So, back to what to do with the basement. Do we replace the paneling? Don't want to. Do we put up some sort of dry wall? Maybe. Today's option was to remove the paneling and just paint the masonry walls white so any new owner will see a nice open room and do whatever they want with it. Sounds reasonable.

We haven't received any estimates yet from any of the contractors and that's probably what will help us decide. I'm leaning toward the “less is more” resolution.

We'll see.

And the children shall lead them; to the past?

Yes, folks were talking about children's books, old-fashioned children's books printed the old-fashioned way where you have to hold them between you and your child and read aloud to them. According to a story in today's NYTimes those darn kids just don't want to be e-read at bedtime.

They want print, paper, ink, shapes, sizes, things to hold onto, or as one Dad put it, to “spit up on.” His rationale: “a book may be easier to clean up than a tablet.” Yech!

While e-readers proliferate, according to the Times, it's the parents themselves who prefer turning the pages of real books with their children at bedtime. So let's hear it for 2-1/2 year old Georgia who, according to her mother, “reads only print books.” And Mom works for a digital company.

They are definitely conflicted, these 24/7-wired-to-the-hilt parents. They know that soon enough their offspring will be hi-tech all the way but something about childhood demands the discipline of learning to hold, read and turn the pages of a real book.

With luck, that habit could last a lifetime, or as long as what they call “dead-tree” books are published. I'm rooting for the toddlers.

Quoting one parent from the Times' story: “If he's going to pick up the iPad, he's not going to read, he's going to want to play a game. So reading concentration goes out the window.”

Is that what all those people are doing on their hand-held devices? Playing games when they could be reading Tolstoy?

No wonder the birds are angry.

At Home, Off Line

Headline in today's NYTimes: Out on the town, always on line. Naturally the story was about young people twitting, texting and otherwise keeping in touch with their multitudes of friends all while enjoying (?) their nightlife.

Here’s our version of life in the fast lane:

First of all it's far from fast. We sleep late and don't have our smart phones (we don't have any), iPads or laptops in our bed. At breakfast, we read the Sunday paper (or as much as we want to at the time.)

Then it's household chores. Today was a lovely day so much-postponed yard work was completed. Still no phone calls or texts from anyone. Just us, talking to each other directly. (Full disclosure: I did check email. Nothing but solicitations.)

Then we composed and wrote a thank you note. Emphasis on wrote. Not email or text; a handwritten note with complete words and sentences. Put it in an envelope, addressed it by hand and put a stamp on it. We'll mail it tomorrow. How retro is that?

Then we called friends on a real phone and made a date to play Bridge at their home in the afternoon. We played just under two hours and there was not a cell phone in sight. We also talked to one another. It was a very social interlude.

The evening was equally quiet. My wife made one real phone call to a friend to set up a date for the morning. We watched some TV and read more of the Sunday paper; the real paper, not the online version.

And now, when I suspect the younger generation is just getting ready to go out on the town, always on line, we're turning off and turning in.

Not so fast...!

In this season of frenzied shopping a word of advice to the harried: check your credit card receipt. You may have been seduced by the price on the shelf or the label on the product but the scanner may not.

Couple of examples. I went to chain drug store recently and was pleasantly surprised that my product was on sale well below its normal price. I took two for slightly more than one normally would have cost.

Pleased with my bargain, I checked out only to discover just before I left the store that I was charged the full price. I immediately sought out a store manager. We checked the shelf where the sale tag showed the price I thought I was paying.

However, the astute manager, much younger and with much better eye sight, saw the fine print below the sale price which said “with coupon.” “What coupon?” I asked. To his credit, he took me to the front of the store, took a coupon book from a shelf near the entrance (which I never noticed) and gave me the sale price “with coupon.”

Today, I went to a liquor store to buy my favorite brand of champagne. I selected two bottles and checked out along with a bottle of wine that was offering a $2 rebate. As I was filling out the rebate coupon at home I noticed the price of the champagne was significantly higher than I was used to.

I called the store and asked “how come?” They asked if I had bought the organic version of the bubbly. Sure enough, I had selected the wrong vintage. Went back to the store and got a nice refund and my brand of choice.

Lessons for all seasons: read the labels, read the fine print, check the receipts.

A very gentlemanly game

I'm referring to our weekly tennis game which features four men of advanced years trying to recapture their more youthful abilities. Truth is we've stopped trying that hard.

We love the game and have been playing together for what seems like forever. More recently, however, it's become difficult to get four guys available for a match.

One stalwart is recuperating from a knee replacement. Another has given up the game altogether because of his knee problems. But the rest of us just keep battling the odds to field a weekly foursome.

When we do get on the court, I've noticed a not so subtle change in the way we play. We don't chase down as many shots as we used to. We don’t race back for lobs over our heads. We don't charge in for drop shots unless they're within a couple of steps. We walk slowly back to the baseline to serve after a point. We seem to be more interested in going for our after-match coffee than matching points.

So I think what I'm saying is that we have a very social game, played at a very gentlemanly pace leading to a welcome coffee klatch.

We stroll, not run, on Dunkin'.

It's funny, but it's not FUNNY...

I went to a monthly meeting tonight of a volunteer group I joined 15 years ago. Members have come and members have gone, but a small cadre of us are still active in the organization.

As with any group of people of a certain age the humor can be dark. One member said he asked his doctor about something behind his ear. The doctor told him he was “deteriorating.”

Another in our group said the same doctor told him he was “rusting.”

I'm going to see this same doctor soon for a checkup. I can't imagine what he's going to say about me. Words like “disintegrating,” “crumbling,” “falling apart,” come to mind.

How about just plain “getting old,” and collecting the natural ailments that accrue to the “old.” I hate the word “elderly.” Park that alongside “senior citizen.” (Although I accept all discounts offered to the breed.)

Describe us as you will, we'll continue muddling through the modern world.

The Times They Are A'digitizin'

Every day, it seems, I get an email from the New York Times telling me, as a subscriber to the newspaper, that I'm entitled to this and that on-line feature.

I rarely use any of them. I appreciate the news alerts that come via email but rarely read more than the headlines. I'm not comfortable reading lengthy news stories on line. Frankly, it hurts my eyes.

I prefer to hold a newspaper in my hand and flip through the pages looking for stories that interest me. In fact, my wife just came in from the den (it's 11:10 p.m.) and told me about several interesting stories she saw in today's paper. I'll get to them tomorrow. Sometimes I take days to finish a single edition. But I'm in no hurry and so the papers accumulate.

We keep a large brown paper bag next to our couch to collect the finished papers. Then it goes to the recyclers. Every two weeks we contribute a minimum of two full bags of old newspapers.

I understand newspapers are trying to make up for lost circulation and ad revenue by offering more and more web features. I wish them well. But by offering news and information in bits and bytes we sacrifice detail, context and perspective. That can't help a reader understand the larger picture.

As I drive through my small suburban town I see people of all ages walking along with their eyes on a hand-held device. At a local diner recently, a young couple at a nearby table, were looking not at each other but at their hand-held devices. I doubt if any of these people were scanning news reports.

If digitized information is the hare and knowledge is the tortoise, the modern world may just turn that old fable on its back. Pity if it should.

Folders to Follow

We all respond to untoward events in our own way. After assessing the damage, if any, comes planning how to deal with it.

I'm referring to the freak October snow storm that knocked out power across a wide swath of the New York Metro area. I've previously written about the damage to our basement and our electrical system.

We are now in the process of hiring professionals to do the repairs. We are working with an insurance adjuster and are starting to get estimates.

Hence the outbreak of new folders. We have one for the electrician, one for the adjuster, one for the flooring repairs, one for a new clothes dryer, and once the contractors give us estimates, we'll have one for replacing the basement paneling and ceiling.

Folders are a way of life in this household. They're handy, when you can remember where you put them, and give us a sense of control.

My wife has a folder file on her desk. I have two on mine.

Don't dare ask: “where is...?” without looking first.

E-Readers

Here they come, the latest e-readers for the holiday season. Bigger, better, bolder looking. Cheaper? Are you kidding?

OK, some still will be on the less expensive side (under $100 with ads, more without). I'm still not buying. I know people who love them. I haven't tried one so I really can't say I don't like them.

What I don't like is the concept. All the hype about e-readers downplays the fact you still have to BUY the books in order to read them. That's where I draw the line.

I like books. I read books. I get them from my local library. And if they don't have it on their shelf, they'll get if for me from another library. That's service.

I'm also patient. I don't have to be the first person on the block to read a book. I read book reviews. If a book sounds interesting, or its recommended by a friend, I'll reserve it at the library. Anticipating its arrival is part of the fun.

Best of all, it costs me only a dime to reserve a book. And they don't have ads between the pages.

Bookmark that!

G-Z

Today we completed our disposal of old travel brochures, receipts, maps, etc. We still have several envelopes of pictures to go through but chances are we'll junk them as well. We're not going to squint at negatives (remember negatives?) to see if an old image is worth saving.

Yesterday we went through A-F. Today we started with G for Georgia (Atlanta, Savannah) and Greece (Athens, Delphi, some islands) and went through H (Hawaii), I, Israel (many times), Italy, Idaho and couldn't come up with a J, although I did spend 14 months in Hokkaido, Japan, in the Army.

Then there was L for London, M for Maine, Massachusetts, Montreal; N for New Mexico and North Carolina; O for Oregon, P for Pennsylvania (Gettysburg – everyone should visit Gettysburg) and Paris, of course.

Q for Quebec, R for Rhode Island, S for San Diego, San Francisco, South Carolina, T for Texas (we lived there for eight weeks during basic training) U for Utah, V for Vermont and Vancouver, B.C., W for Washington D.C. and Washington State.

Did not come across any X, Y’s or Z's so that about wraps up our travel disposal project.

We remembered wonderful moments from each of those visits but we're now in been-there-done-that mode. Except for Israel, where the call of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren cannot be ignored.

Next year in Jerusalem!

A-F

I mentioned some time ago that we were shredding old files. We previously disposed of a lot of out-dated financial records, private as well as business. Today it was vacation files.

We've been to a lot of places and in addition to bringing back fond memories, we collected maps, sight-seeing brochures, hotel and rental car bills and other assorted items you acquire on a trip of a week or more. They're supposed to be memorabilia and to some extent they are. Mostly, they just collect dust.

What triggered today's disposal binge was something a friend said recently. They were going someplace we had visited. We offered them our maps and brochures. Thanks, they said, but we can get all that information from the web.

Reality struck! All this stuff lurking in the basement was useless. We too could access the web if we needed information about any place on earth.

Up from the basement came two storage boxes of travel folders. Did I mention my wife puts everything in a folder?

So today we started with Amsterdam, Arizona, Brussels, California, Colorado, Costa Rica, Eastern Europe (which we never got to), Florida, France and probably some others I can't remember because I wasn't thinking of writing about them until they were all in the shredder.

Next up, box two: G-Z.

We hope our son appreciates the work we're saving him.

Catching on, reluctantly

For most of this year I've been blogging about how the new, newer and newest technology dominates so many lives. Not mine, of course, because I'm well out of the 24/7 loop.

However, I did witness an intelligent display of technology right in my own home this afternoon. We had the pleasure of a visit from my son, Rob, and grandson, Ben. As usual, my wife offered them some of our no-longer needed possessions.

Back story: this is exactly what her mother used to do to us whenever we visited. Gee, thanks, Mom, but we really don't need (or want) this, that or the other tchotchke (would you believe this word is in the dictionary?). Sometimes, not to embarrass her, we would take an item and then quietly dispose of it.

Guess what? That's what our kids do to us now. I guess it's a generational thing and we understand it. Here's the update, though.

We have some very nice French Limoges soup bowls we did take from my mother-in-law's treasure trove. Since Rob's daughter, Samantha, an art history major, is very much into French these days, we asked him if he thought she might like them.

Wait, he said, I'll send her a picture and see what she says. He whips out his smart phone, takes the picture and within minutes gets a response from Sam that she loves the bowls and would relish having them. Score one for technology.

I still don't need a smart phone but I have to admit it worked for us all today.

And, by the way, Rob and Ben each left with two sweaters I no longer wear.

Score one for the grandparents.

Spats

You may know the word “spat” as a four-letter clue in a crossword puzzle. You also may recognize it as what happens when you have a misunderstanding with your significant other that gets slightly out of hand.

We had one of those recently (since resolved) which reminded me of a more obscure meaning of the word. Persons of a certain age will recall spats as an article of clothing for the feet. Some fashionistas may still advocate their use. Other than covering poorly shined shoes, I never could figure out their purpose.

Basically, spats are made of thick cloth and cover the instep to the ankle. You buttoned them on. In fact, the buttons are part of the visual impact. The dictionary says spats even may reach higher than the ankle. To wear spats showed you were “the cat's meow,” a flapper-era expression describing the well-dressed man or woman of that era.

I remember my father wearing pearl gray spats with black buttons. They went well with his homburg hat, overcoat and cigar. He cut a dashing figure.

I'm pretty sure Jimmy Cagney sported spats when he played George M. Cohan in the movie, “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” Did Fred Astaire also wear them in his earlier movies with his sister Adele and/or Ginger Rogers? Maybe. My memory isn't that good.

Anyway, keep an eye out for spats. They could be the next retro fashion statement.

And if you come across “spat” in a crossword puzzle, try “tiff.” Or vice versa.

If you’re otherwise involved in either, it's best to make up quickly. A hug will usually do the trick.

Reverse Happiness

I get perverse satisfaction listening to traffic reports on radio these days. The daily congestion on the roads, tunnels and bridges is mind-boggling.

I haven't been part of that scene for some time. I commuted from New Jersey to New York City for more than 40 years. Initially, I drove into the city before becoming a bus passenger. Busing was better. Even then delays were expected.

To get to work on time, I usually left home early. I had plenty of reading material and some snacks for trip home. Snowstorms were the worst. The buses either couldn't get into the Port Authority or when they left became part of the inchway-on-the-highway.

The longest ride I had from the city to my parked car 17 miles away was over five hours. Then I had to barrel out of a snow drift and coax the car home through streets covered in deep snow. Fortunately, I was driving a stick-shift VW Rabbit with front wheel drive and it performed beautifully.

It wasn't as bad as sitting in a plane on the tarmac for hours, although I've been through that as well. The longest stretch was six hours at La Guardia Airport and it had nothing to do with weather. While waiting for take-off a passenger died of a heart attack. We had to wait for the authorities to remove the victim.

The point of all this is that while I sympathize with all business travelers, I'm glad I'm out of the mix.

I'm tagging it “reverse happiness.”

Aftermath

We're back to normal now after the freak Halloween storm. With a few improvements.

We now have a backup sump pump in case we lose power again. That should keep the basement dry.

Our electrician repaired and upgraded our entire wiring system.

Our landscaping service removed the large tree limb that fell across our patio and even removed some branches from the roof of our den. They also cleaned up the back yard, which has never looked so neat. I don't expect that to last too long.

But the last few days have not been entirely without incident. During her exercise class last Friday, my wife tripped over someone's misplaced weights, landing on both knees. Fortunately it was more of a gentle stumble. Our orthopedist told her to expect some swelling and tenderness but little of either occurred.

I, on the other hand, woke up Sunday morning with a pain in my chest. Taking no chances, we called the First Aid Squad which took me to Mountainside Hospital. I had to stay overnight but all tests were negative for heart disease. I came home this afternoon with blood pressure medication.

Nothing makes you appreciate life more than a glimpse of the alternative.

60 Hours, Day Four

Tuesday, Nov. 1. Still no power. Crawled out of bed, quickly dressed, put on boots and checked the water level in the basement. Yikes! Now eight inches and getting very close to an electrical socket on the basement wall.

I called our electrician to ask whether it would be dangerous if the water reached that socket, only a few inches away. He didn't think so, which wasn't a very comforting answer.

As we were having breakfast at about 10:15 a.m., THE LIGHTS CAME BACK ON! Hallelujah! The best thing was the heat started coming up and the sump pump began working. We turned off all the unnecessary lights but just as we were getting warm THE LIGHTS WENT OUT AGAIN!

We were crushed; visions of more powerless hours raced through our minds. But wait: THE POWER CAME ON AGAIN AND THIS TIME IT STAYED. It was 10:30 a.m., 60 hours after the blackout.

What about the basement? With the pump working again, the surface water drained off within an hour, leaving only a wet floor. We could deal with that. BUT, the water heater was still out of commission. That meant another day without hot water until our plumber could check it tomorrow.

Meantime, my wife called our insurance company and they could not have been more accommodating. A representative arrived that afternoon, surveyed our basement and back yard and scheduled a visit from a cleanup crew also for Wednesday, Nov. 2, which promised to be a busy day.

Looking ahead, we're expecting an adjuster on Monday, Nov. 7 to tell us what we can expect in the way of an insurance claim. Our electrician also will be here Monday to repair exterior power lines and replace a number of old outlets in the house.

In the meantime, the Verona Public Works Department has done a fantastic job clearing the streets of debris. We still have to weave around downed limbs as we drive through town but we CAN get through.

We feel for those elsewhere who still don't have power and we wish them well. For the moment, however, we're good to go.
Tomorrow will be a busy day. Stay tuned.

60 Hours, Day Three

Monday, October 31: first thing I did was check the water level in the basement. Sunday morning it was two inches. Now it was four inches and rising along with our anxiety level. Nothing we could do since our electricity-driven sump pump was not working.

We had been nursing our remaining hot water for two full days so we thought we'd try showering. Two quick showers and that was the end of the hot water.

Earlier, town work crews came through and pushed fallen tree limbs out of the street and onto our lawns. It was the first time we could venture safely out of the driveway.

Now able to move about, I went shopping for ice to salvage what we could of our perishables. The first shopping area I went to was closed. No power. Ditto my doctor's offices elsewhere in the neighborhood (I needed a copy of a report; not an emergency).

Forewarned, I called ahead to my car dealer two towns over to see if they could fix my auto's remote control. They were open for business and fixed the remote quickly. As it happened, I was near the supermarket we normally frequent so I buzzed over there to find they, too, were closed for lack of power.

Came home and reviewed our options. We needed that ice to keep the freezer chilled and save any foodstuffs that needed refrigeration. A Foodtown supermarket in Cedar Grove, one town over, had not lost power and they had ice. We bought three bags.

We have friends in Cedar Grove who also had power as well as a huge tree in front of their house, blocking their driveway and front door. We offered to share our “threatened” flank steak with them in exchange for dinner and a few hours of warmth. To get there, we walked through snow-covered grass to their back door. Greeted by Max, their friendly, rather large mixed- breed-mostly-shepherd dog.

Our gracious hosts had another “powerless” couple seeking refuge with them so the six of us had delicious grilled flank steak. Our hosts provided the trimmings along with a welcome glass of wine.

After warming up for a couple of hours we went home to another night in a dark and cold house, where a bag of 150 pieces of candy sat waiting for the trick-or-treaters who were canceled by Mother Nature's freak Halloween snow storm.

If you think this story is endless, think how we felt living it.

(To be continued, really)

60 Hours, Day Two

Sunday, October 30, dawned cold and clear. Mostly cold since we still had no electricity and thus no heat or hot water. We found Rosanne huddled in the corner of our den closest to the gas-fired space heater, the only source of warmth in the house.

Ira soon joined us for a breakfast of stove-top-cooked oatmeal and cold cereal. Much to my surprise our New York Times was delivered despite the storm. Reading the paper would help pass the time since there wasn't much else to do.

Whenever you lose power, one of the first things you think about is saving the food in the refrigerator and freezer. We had just bought meat for hamburgers and a flank steak, all of which were in the freezer.

I couldn't get to my patio grill because a large tree limb had fallen diagonally in front of it. So we cooked four hamburgers in a large frying pan on the stove. They weren’t the greatest but no one complained. We decided we could save the flank steak for at least one more day.

Rosanne and Ira made a quick trip to their house down the block but were back soon because they had no source of warmth at all. Ira came back with a load of magazines which he read while I spent the afternoon with The Times. It was the first time in a long time I actually read the Sunday paper on Sunday.

Enough was enough, we agreed. Let's go out for dinner. We called around and found a local diner was open for business. And what a business they were doing. It didn't take long before we were sharing storm stories with folks at a neighboring table.

Dinner was a welcome break from the cold and dark. Afterward, Rosanne and Ira decided to sleep at home, despite their cold house. We went our separate ways hoping Monday would bring some relief.

(To be continued)

60 Hours

In case you haven't noticed I haven't blogged for a while. One night I got lazy. However, for the last 60 hours we were without power thanks to the October snowstorm that slogged the Northeast. So no blogging. Too busy trying to keep warm and worrying about the water rising steadily in the basement.

(Before you start telling me that if I had a Smart Phone with satellite service I could bore you minute- by-minute with the details of our plight. Stop. Not interested. Neither would you be.)

Now we have some idea of how folks feel when hit by tornadoes and floods and hurricanes. At least we still have our house, the heat is back on and the water, which reached a depth of eight inches, has receded from the basement, leaving a minor mess.

I say minor because Hurricane Irene taught us a lesson. After Irene we emptied our basement of important papers (that was the shredding blog) and a lot of stuff we thought we should get rid of anyway. The water damaged some paneling and maybe the water heater, washer and dryer. We'll know more after the plumber checks things out tomorrow morning.

Meanwhile, driving around town we were amazed at the number of streets closed by fallen trees. In fact, we were lucky to get home Saturday night while the storm was raging.

With our friends, Rosanne and Ira, we had tickets to a show Saturday in New Brunswick which is about an hour from Verona. Ignoring all the warnings about the weather, we went. Rosanne is an excellent driver and got us there in time to have a cup of coffee before curtain time.

After the theater, Rosanne drove us to a nice restaurant in nearby Caldwell where the four of us had a leisurely dinner and then headed home. That's when the adventure began. Driving from Caldwell to Verona, we noticed the lights were out along Bloomfield Ave. As we approached Verona, we saw street lights and our spirits rose.

However, once we got off the main road and into our side streets, darkness prevailed. Not only that, but several routes to our street (we live on the same street) were blocked. We got one house away from Rosanne's driveway and had to stop there. She saw wires in front of her house and the police told her not to go into her house. So we all we walked up to our house and couldn't believe we had lights.

That didn't last long. Within 10 minutes our power also went out. So we brought out the flashlights, lit some candles and all went to bed in our house.

End of day one.

(To be continued)

Junk Alert!

There it was on the back page of the local paper, the entire back page: A full page ad for “Antiques Buying Roadshow.”

Not to be mistaken for the PBS TV show of almost the same name: “Antiques Roadshow.”

As always, the devil is in the details, or in this case, the clever insert of the word “Buying” between Antiques and Roadshow.

So before you lug out what you think are your oldies but goodies take a good hard look at what they're looking for: dolls and toys, perfume and lipstick items, vintage clothing, etc. Does that sound like your grandma's 17^th century rocker?

I doubt it. Reads more like a garage sale gone amok. The “buyers” will be around here for two days at a local hotel and I'm sure they'll get some folks expecting to hit it big. I won't be one of them.

When I mentioned this venture to my son he warned me not to give away any items he might want. He does have first dibs of a few of our possessions but none of them are worth much. In fact, his biggest potential prize is a “wonder knife” we received as a wedding present 59 years ago.

We still have it, still use it and he ain't getting it until we're done.

So beware the advertiser's sting. It's in the fine print.

Waiting For Fun (ours) and Profit (theirs)

I went shopping with my wife this afternoon. That is she shopped. I drove and when we arrived at our destination, I found a comfortable chair and read the paper while she tried on clothes.

I don't mind this kind of shopping because it gives me time to sit quietly and catch up on the news, the columns and anything else that strikes my fancy that day. When waiting is expected it's important to have reading material with you. Sometimes I'll take a book. Today it was The Times.

After a while my wife came to my chair and modeled the garment she chose. This is when my role becomes: “The Approver.” I'm pretty good at it.

If I like what she's picked out I'll tell her. If I don't like it, it's a bit trickier, but I tell her as diplomatically as possible. No hard feelings necessary. Thing is, over the years she has come to trust my judgment.

This was a good day in that I finished the entire paper. Not that I read every word. I never do. I read what I like and usually find enough stuff each day to make the subscription worthwhile.

And since my wife found what she was looking for, it was a successful venture for all.

Subscribe to Unsubscribe

Like most people I get a lot of emails from places and people I never heard of and don't particularly care to hear from. Some of them give you the opportunity to “unsubscribe” to their offerings.

Problem is you have to “subscribe” to them to unsubscribe. I don't buy this. These sites got my email address from somewhere and since they are soliciting me to that address they should know what it is without me having to enter it again.

If I did, who knows where it would end up.

I was warned once that by “unsubscribing” you are, in effect, giving your email address to a third or maybe even a fourth party, or more. Which is why I usually don't subscribe to unsubscribe.

But once in a while I'll get an unwanted email and I'll click on their unsubscribe message. And once in a while it works without having to give my email address all over again. Mostly not.

If anyone knows how to permanently rid oneself of unwanted email solicitations I would subscribe to the advice.

Unhappy Meals

I was going to goof on Texas prison officials who have cut back inmates to two meals a day on weekends in some prisons. But reading further into the story there doesn't seem to be too much of a controversy.

Sure, some inmate families and prisoners rights advocates think the cutbacks are harsh. The state is in the red (literally and figuratively) and this is supposed to help cut $2.8 million from the budget of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. Good luck with that.

Then I thought maybe Gov. Rick Perry came up with this idea to starve prisoners to death rather than execute them. But that would take too long. And it wouldn't look good on his resume.

Maybe they should charge the prisoners for their meals rather than feed them at taxpayer expense. Prisoners can buy snacks from the commissary but their families have to send them money for that.

This issue of feeding prison inmates three meals a day surely will work its way into the courts. I hope the judges have the stomach for it.

Bon apetit.

Need to Know

That's a phrase to strike fear and loathing into an inquiring mind. Need to Know. It implies you are somehow not qualified to know something of presumed importance. At least you think it's important to know and some sinister force is preventing you from knowing it.

I have my own personal uses for “Need to Know” and it's more a source of amusement than an annoyance between me and my wife.

For example: If she's going into great detail in a story about a friend or mutual acquaintance, I'll say, “more than I need to know.” She takes this in good humor and as a result she now tells me only what I need to know. I like that.

In fact, some of our friends have adopted the practice, telling their immediate audience only what they need to know, including us.

That's all you need to know.

Fading Athletes, Fading Memories

A staple of sports literature is the tale of the professional athlete who’s coming to the end of his or her career. Sometimes it's a heart warming story, sometimes sad.

But, this is about us, an aging group of tennis players (read hackers) whose sole claim to fame is that we've been playing together for more years than we can remember. That's if we can remember anything, which is why I'm telling this story.

One of our colleagues is our de facto “captain,” meaning he arranges our playing dates, times, locations and makes sure there are four of us available to participate. He also tells us who is playing with whom when we take the court. We never dispute his choices.

At the end of each session, we discuss our next playing date. During the week, our captain will email us to confirm the details. Sometimes he will project a week or two in advance to see who's available on what dates.

This week he sent an email that he was pleased to advise us he reserved a 10 a.m. court for Friday, Oct. 21, (today) at an indoor facility we normally use during the cold months. We all liked that because we could sleep a little later. We usually play at 8 or 9 a.m.

So we gathered at the facility to pay for our court time and the attendant, who knows us from previous years, says: “What are you doing here today? You booked the court for Saturday.”

Much embarrassment ensued. But we took it in stride and booked a court for next Friday at a convenient time for all. Then, since we still wanted to play, we drove to nearby outdoor courts and had a spirited set of tennis. By spirited I mean my partner and I made a few less mistakes than our opponents.

We won in a tiebreaker, 7-5.

“One Came Back,” etc. Part Two (conclusion)

Previously on “One Came Back: The Saga of the Missing Sock” we learned that I became obsessed with a missing anklet. Two-by-two they entered the washing machine but only one came back.

Where could it have gone?

Weeks went by. I was resigned to never having a mate for the surviving white anklet. At best I would have a spare in case another one went missing. There was no worst.

THEN, as I was getting ready for bed one evening, changing my day clothes for my pajamas, I glanced at the floor. AND THERE, TUCKED INTO THE CROTCH OF THE BRIEFS I HAD JUST REMOVED, WAS THE MISSING SOCK!

Had it been there all this time? Who knew? I never felt it. I never saw it until that moment.

Incredulous, my wife said: “You mean to say you had that sock in your jockeys and never knew it? That beats all. Throw it in the wash. Who knows what hell it's been through.”

The End.

“One Came Back: The Saga of the Missing Sock” Part 1

Forgive me, but it wouldn't be a saga if it had only one part.

It started last Spring when my wife insisted I wear those mini socks (I guess you'd call them anklets) when I play golf. She thought my lower legs looked funny because they were so much whiter than the rest of my sunburned limbs.

So I bought several pairs and wore them throughout the summer and she was happy with my fully sunburned legs.

Then one day we were sorting our laundry and one of my white anklets was missing. Hey, that's not uncommon. Everyone goes through that once in a while. It must have missed this wash. It'll turn up in the next one.

Well, it didn't. We looked around the washer and dryer and behind each as well. No sock. Not to worry, I had plenty of others but it nagged me.

Where could that sock disappear to? For weeks, with every wash we expected it to appear. But it did not. The mystery deepened until it became an obsession. Actually, it became this saga.

Which I will conclude next time.

Stay tuned.

I Can't Believe I Wrote The Whole Thing (Almost)

A few days ago I offered up the title “The Ego Pit” for your amusement and possible use as a story line. Thing is, I forgot that some time ago I actually created a cast of characters for this morality play. I hope you'll pardon the cynicism. It was well earned.

So here's how I see the staff of local station WEGO-TV, in no particular order:

The City Editor who has nothing but contempt for the pretty faces that pass for on air talent.

Assignment editor amused by his bosses' temper tantrums; has to smooth ruffled feathers to get anything on the air.

News Director totally cowed by the General Manager.

General Manager cowed by the Division Veep.

Executive Producer looking for his network break.

Anchorman: smooth, articulate, able to speak fluently for hours without knowing what he's talking about.

Handsome co-anchor on air for women to lust after and men to admire his wardrobe. Never covers a story.

Hot shot young reporter knows how to put together a dynamite package of pictures for a story with no substance.

The Girl: Looks great on camera; can't tell a news story from a spelling bee. Or when a spelling bee becomes a news story.

Minority reporters: Black, Hispanic, Asian, whatever. Have to keep the quotas up for license renewal.

That's how I saw it then and frankly I don't see much difference now.

I warned you I'm a cynic.

Titles For You, con't: “The Brisket Crisis”

There are two Jewish holidays where brisket dominates the traditional meal, Rosh Hashanah and Passover. Brisket is optional on Chanukah.

Of course you can eat brisket any time but on these major holidays brisket is a “must have.” Therein lie the potentials for crisis.

The brisket buyer faces two key questions: When to buy it (meaning when will it go on sale) and how much do I need?

The first question requires keeping a keen eye on the weekly supermarket fliers. Buy too soon and you will over-pay. Wait too long and there might not be any left. Hint: brisket usually goes on sale the week before the holiday. That's when you pounce.

How much you buy depends on how many you're feeding. Remember, you can never have too much brisket. Here's a story to illustrate this point.

It's pre-Passover and my wife and I are in the supermarket shopping for our brisket. We come across a young woman, brisket in hand, asking the butcher if this would be enough for her table. My wife, ever helpful, asks the woman how many guests she is having. Once told, my wife says you better take another one. She does. Crisis averted.

Wait, there's more. They start talking, get around to where we each live, etc. etc. It's a classic case of Jewish Geography. It gets better. We tell her we live in Verona and she says her husband used to live there. Not only that, turns out he used to live in our house. She's married to the son of the couple we bought our house from.

We wished her a great Seder. Never saw her again.

Our brisket was delicious. And we had leftovers.

Coming soon: "One Came Back: The Saga of the Missing Sock."

Titles For You

Here's the thing: I create titles I like but never write the stories or books to go with them. So I'm giving you the opportunity of a lifetime. Take any one of my titles and do what you will with it.

Of course, you don't have to do anything. You may even snicker that a grown man could come up with such ideas. But that's me. And I'm going to give them to you one at a time.

Today's title is: “The Ego Pit.” It's the story of a TV News operation at station WEGO-TV. You can set the station anywhere you please. The main characters will be the same. Having worked in news management for many years I know the material is there.

You will have an anchor man or woman or both who just know they belong in a larger market. Or if they're already in a large market, then certainly they deem themselves worthy of a network slot.

Then there are the supporting characters who also aspire to greater glory in TV land. Pity no one ever tells them they've gone as far as they ever will.

You, as well as I, can probably think of many worthy fictions that have already explored the TV news environment, but I like my title. I offer it to any enterprising writer who might want to take up the challenge of fitting characters around the egos that abound in a TV newsroom.

I'm sad as hell and I'm not going to write about it anymore.

Next: “The Brisket Crisis.”

My Alternate Universe

I like science fiction. I particularly like the TV show “Fringe.” In case you haven't seen it they're dealing with alternate universes that mirror each other but years apart.

I started thinking lately about the concept of alternate universes right here and now. I'm beginning to think that aging puts you squarely in an alternate universe.

Examples:

You can’t, or don't want to keep up with the latest wiz-bang technology.
The advertising industry ignores you. (Exceptions: Pharmaceuticals)
Movies are aimed at teen-agers.
TV shows are only aimed at the 18-34 age group.

Even AARP is trending younger, celebrating anyone over 50 or even 60 who is still attractive and active. Hel-lo!

So you know what? It's OK. I'm “down” with that. (I heard that expression on one of those trendy young people's shows. I think it means "good.")

In my universe we remember dial phones without area codes and our old home and business phone numbers. Nickel subway rides, 55-cent bleacher seats and no zip codes.

Some might call that nostalgia. Not that anything's wrong with that. (Thank you, Jerry Seinfeld.)

Meantime, we have to live in this universe. We're doing the best we can and trying to enjoy the ride as long as it lasts. After all, there are no round-trip tickets.

PS: You didn't miss last night's blog, I took the night off.

Is it me, or...

Microsoft, which once again sent me a pop-up message that my “trial” version of Office is about to expire. This, after I previously went through the process of purchasing and installing Office 2010.

So I did it once again and I hope this will be the end of it. To be safe, however, I now keep my purchase order and Product Key by my side whenever I open this laptop. You can't be too confident.

I started this blog out of frustration with the dazzling pace of new technology, some of which I embrace but most of which is beyond me. The fact is, I'm too old for it. My son and grandchildren are of the tech generation and bless them for that.

I still prefer a phone call (land line or cell) to a text message or email. Bottom line, however, I'll take any kind of communication from them any way I can get it. Amen, says my wife.

I just don't want to hear from Microsoft again. It's becoming a trial.

A Challenge

Here's a challenge for all you techies out there:

Develop an app containing ready-to-use excuses for failure. Ideal for pols losing nominations or elections. Or just plain dropping out. I call it the iQuit app.

Download it to any smart phone or iDevice and off you go to retirement. Example: The dog ate my delegates.

Of course, you could expand iQuit to offer home-spun excuses for all sorts of missed opportunities, i.e., “It's not my time,” “I'm not ready for this,” “I never wanted to be an accountant anyway.”

Consultants could research the iQuit app for the most convincing statement their candidate could use to gracefully exit the stage and still be credible. Good luck with that.

Then, I'd ask a Mark Zuckerberg type to develop a Save-Your-Facebook (SYFb) site for the dropouts. There, the candidate could expound at great length why his/her party and the nation missed out on nominating and/or electing such a worthy individual.

On the other hand, reading the “likes” and “comments”on his/her SYFb site might be daunting.

iHope there’s a programmer out there willing to take a crack at this.

No excuses, now.

Thirsty?

We just watched the first segment of the Ken Burns documentary on Prohibition, which I had DVR'd. We'll watch the other two segments when we can. It's interesting but also instructive. As some reviewers have pointed out, there’s a lot of relevance in it to today's political atmosphere.

In part one we saw what can happen when one-issue zealots contaminate the political process, forcing a constitutional amendment banning beer and liquor sales for consumer consumption. We know how well that turned out.

But since this is essentially a non-political blog I won't take that any further. See the documentary and draw your own conclusions.

Come to think of it, there was a time when we were personally affected by the Dry movement. While I was in the Army, we lived in a small Texas town that was dry. We had to drive across the county line to buy beer. (Fortunately it wasn't too far.)

We didn't think anything of it at the time but now I realize it was a leftover of the Prohibition era. For all I know, that town is still dry.

Who knew we were living in a part of history?

Shredding

We're doing a lot of shredding and shedding these days. Shredding old files, old tax returns, old bank statements, and junking a lot of old vacation pamphlets, maps, tour books, etc.

Why now? The tropical storms and heavy rains of late summer sent us to the basement to check for water. We were lucky to have only a minor incident down there. But it got us thinking that if we ever had a real water problem what would we need to save.

The answer was: nothing. So why is all that paper cluttering up the filing cabinet and storage boxes down there. Inertia, indifference, indolence or just plain disinterest. Maybe I thought that stuff would make good material for a book, a memoir or even fiction. Not a chance.

So little by little we are carting the papers to the shredder in my office and filling sacks with the remnants. I get to choose which papers must go (all of them) and which should stay (none). She gets to shred and I get to clean out the shredder to get it ready for the next batch.

It is a cleansing experience.

Reflecting

Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement just ended, is a time for reflection. How did I do last year? Can I do better next year? I hope so.

Our rabbi gave a sermon this morning on the importance of reflecting on many things. One of them was nature. Do we take the time to appreciate what's around us. As some would say, take time to smell the roses.

I frequently do this on the golf course. Particularly after hitting a poor shot. After all, there must be some benefit to being out there. Which had me reflecting as I listened to the rabbi's words.

If the Almighty created the wonderful natural world we live in, why did Man have to mess it up by creating golf courses to torment us?

Just a thought, for which I probably will be asking forgiveness next Yom Kippur.

In the spirit of...

the Jewish New Year, if I have written anything this year that offended anyone I sincerely apologize and ask your forgiveness. I will try to do better in the coming year.

Muddling Marv

A First

I knew I would have something to write about on a Bridge lesson day but it has nothing to do with Bridge. It has everything to do with memory and irony.

This morning, as we were leaving the house for our lesson, I noticed my car keys were missing from their hook. Not a good thing. You can't call your car keys as you would your cell phone when it's misplaced.

We looked in all the usual places in the house and no keys. I had no idea where they might be. My wife suggested I look in my car which was parked in our driveway. (Remember this.) So I went out and looked and sure enough there were my keys on the left side of the driver's seat.

Obviously I dropped them there yesterday afternoon when I returned from golf. Why didn’t I miss them? How did I lock the car before entering the house? Answers: I had so much “stuff” in my hands when I left the car I never noticed I didn't have the keys. So, obviously, I hadn't locked the car.

Now that was a first. A long time ago I did lock myself out of a running car, but at least I knew it and was able to call for help. But forgetting to take my car keys altogether? Never.

But wait, I said there was irony. Eleven years ago our BMW was stolen off our driveway with the car locked and the alarm set. And we were home at the time. It was found the next day totaled, in Newark.

This morning, car unlocked, keys in car in plain sight and still in driveway.

Go figure.